CHAPTER 41
Noah
I stretch my cramped hands as I check the clock on the wall of the small room, empty save for a table and two chairs. Giving my statement took over two hours. “Can I go?”
“Yes, sir. Miss Richards is waiting for you,” Agent Proby says.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Uh-huh.” I get a tight smile in return from the middle-aged blonde woman.
Gracie greets me in the hallway with a wide smile, and my feet falter. She’s happy and hopeful, and I get it. Finally, someone—and not just someone, but the FBI—is working to clear Abe’s name.
I smile back, even with this ever-looming dread that hangs over me. Because the flip side to all this is that it may not be all sunshine and roses for my family. I still don’t know how my mother was involved in what happened to Abe, though—thankfully—she wasn’t part of this Canning-picked investigation team. And Silas . . . I’m beginning to wonder what exactly he knows.
Gracie’s smile wavers. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m famished. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Roping a loose arm around her waist, I pull her to me. We begin walking down the hall.
Agent Proby trails behind to escort us out. “Agent Klein will be in contact with you if he needs clarification,” she says, nodding to the guard.
I let Gracie go ahead of me through security.
She comes to an abrupt stop, and I bump into her. “What’s—” My words cut off as I see the problem—Dwayne Mantis is standing on the other side.
My adrenaline instantly begins racing through my veins.
He hasn’t noticed us yet, his head down, busy checking his gun and other belongings with the guard. An older, bearded man in a gray suit stands next to him, and two other men trail closely behind. One of them looks vaguely familiar, though I can’t place him.
Gracie’s body has gone rigid.
I drop my voice to a whisper, settling my hand gently on her hip. “Let’s slide out of here before—”
“Mr. Mantis!” Klein exclaims from behind us, pulling Mantis’s attention up.
Those beady eyes flicker past us, searching for the source of the voice, but quickly fly back to lock on Gracie.
“Thank you for coming in on short notice.” Klein grins as if completely oblivious to the choking tension in the lobby.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Klein, he’s anything but oblivious. The bastard timed this perfectly. He wants to unsettle Mantis and, unfortunately, he doesn’t care what it does to us in the process.
Finally, Mantis peels that fierce gaze away from Gracie. “Anything to help the feds with a case,” he says calmly.
Klein nods to the man in the suit. “And you are . . .”
“My lawyer, Sid DeHavelin,” Mantis answers for him.
“Lawyer?” Klein mock-frowns. “To answer questions about an old case? Why would you think you need a lawyer?”
Mantis grins, showing off a row of perfectly straight, albeit stubby teeth. “Sid insisted.”
“Alright. I mean, it’s your dime, but waste of money if you ask me. Mr. Stapley, I’m guessing he’s here to waste your money too?” Klein says to the man towering behind Mantis.
Klein is questioning Shawn Stapley, too.
Gracie and I exchange glances.
What pretenses did they come in on, I wonder.
Klein throws a casual wave to us. “Hey, thanks for the help, kids. It’s a wonder what you can dig up, even after all these years, isn’t it? We’ll be in touch soon.”
The prick. He’s toying with them. If it weren’t at the risk of Gracie’s safety, I’d applaud him. I want to punch him in the face again. I settle for spearing him with a glare instead.
He ignores it, holding an arm out in invitation.
Mantis and Stapley pass through the metal detectors with their lawyers close behind.
Klein frowns at Stapley. “You okay, man?”
“Yeah, why?” Stapley’s voice is so smooth and melodious next to Mantis’s. And it’s filled with wariness.
“That looks like blood.” Klein nods toward Stapley’s leg, where a dark spot seeps through his khaki pants at his calf.
“Oh, that.” He brushes it off with a dismissive wave and a chuckle. “Got into a fight with a garden rake in the shed. It won.”
Klein grimaces, and I can’t tell if he’s genuinely sympathetic or it’s all part of the act.
Meanwhile, Mantis walks with a slow, easy swagger, his hands tucked casually in his pockets, like he’s got nothing to hide, not a worry in the world. But before he disappears behind the door, he looks over his shoulder at us.
At Gracie.
His eyes narrow in challenge.
“I am just like my father, you son of a bitch,” she growls, too low for anyone but me to hear.
I loop my arm around hers and guide her out before she starts screaming profanities.
“We didn’t need that . . . or that . . . Five lemons?” Gracie dangles the fruit in the air in front of her before stuffing it into the fridge drawer. “We can’t possibly eat all this, Noah.”
“You’d be surprised how much I can eat.” I grin, patting my belly. I’m starved, my appetite having come back with a vengeance.
She groans, fishing out the bag of avocados. “You said you don’t eat these. Why would you buy them then?”
“Because I thought you wanted them?” I say slowly, warily.
“I hate avocados!”
I don’t know whether to be amused or annoyed. “Well, if you’d tell me what you want instead of playing your little game, I wouldn’t have had to guess.” I don’t think I’ve ever been more confused in a grocery store than I was today, trailing behind Gracie in the local HEB, watching her fondle fruits and vegetables before quietly putting them back on the shelf. What else was I supposed to do besides scoop them up and put them in the cart?
“It wasn’t a game. It’s . . .” Her voice trails off with a sigh of exasperation.
“It’s what?” I toss Cyclops a dog bone as I rifle through the bags on the counter, looking for a quick snack. She’s right. The two of us can’t eat all this. We shouldn’t have gone shopping while I was hungry.
“It’s stupid. It’s just something I do when I go grocery shopping.” Her cheeks flush.
I settle on an apple, giving it a rinse as I watch her pointedly, waiting for her to explain.
“We couldn’t afford fresh stuff. When I was younger, I’d watch people squeeze avocados and check tomatoes and peppers for bruises, before picking the best ones to put in their cart. So I started pretending I was doing the same thing.
“Then we’d head over to the canned goods aisles, to buy whatever was on sale. Sometimes, when no one was looking, my nan would ‘accidentally’ knock an expensive can off the shelf with her elbow, just so it’d dent, ’cause you can get a discount on dented cans.”
“So you never had fresh food?”
“A special treat, here or there. On my birthday and for Christmas. Nan would buy those little Christmas oranges—”
“Clementines?”
“Yeah, those. And a frozen turkey, that she’d bake. Just a small one. But we mostly ate canned tuna. Or Spam. Have you ever eaten Spam?”
“Can’t say I have.” I hide my cringe by biting a chunk out of my apple. My mom likened Spam to the canned dog food we’d feed Jake.
Gracie smiles, but it’s bittersweet. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. I’ll bet the grocery stores around this neighborhood don’t stock a lot of it. Anyway, like I said. It’s stupid.”
“No it’s not.” I reach over to give her slender forearm what I hope is a comforting rub. I let my hand linger there for a long moment, the feel of her silky skin against mine too hard to resist. Thoughts of this morning—of her warm, soft body in my arms, of her pliable lips opening for me—flood my mind and set my heart racing.
But the mood has shifted since this morning, in those brief, intimate moments where there was just her and me. Klein invaded, and then we went to The Lucky Nine and the stark reality of why Gracie’s here in the first place came crashing back. I haven’t had the nerve to kiss her again.
I’ve thought about it a hundred times, though.
And just the thought of Gracie struggling to pay her bills or having to eat canned meat, or living next to a lowlife like that Sims guy, ever again has me panicking. “Hey, so I was thinking, you should move back to Texas.”
She frowns as she pulls away from me—from my touch—to unload more groceries. “Why?”
“Because I have this big house to myself. Why not stay here? You don’t have to pay rent. You could get a job, and save your money.”
“You’re not obligated to pay for what others have done to us, Noah,” she says quietly. She leans over to stuff meat into drawers in the fridge, giving me a view I could sit here and appreciate for days.
“That’s not why I’m doing this,” I insist.
She seems to consider it. “Is it even a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Because of—” She cuts herself off, her brow furrowing. “Things are getting complicated.”
Complicated because of what’s happening between us? This thing that’s come out of nowhere, and yet has probably been here all along? At least, it has on my end.
Or complicated with the investigation? With what Silas might know, what he may be lying about?
A soft, shaky sigh sails from her full lips. “Let’s see if Kristian can clear my dad’s name, first. Okay?”
Kristian. Not Agent Klein. Or Klein. She’s calling the FBI agent by his first name.
I grit my teeth and nod.
“Where should I put this?” She hoists the hefty watermelon up.
“In the pantry. Here, let me.” I reach for it, but she sidesteps me.
“I’ve got it.” Cradling it in one arm like a football, she struggles to open the door off the side of the kitchen and then disappears inside. A moment later, there’s a holler of, “God, Noah! There’s enough food in here to feed a family for a year! Why did we even go shopping?”
I give Cyclops a rough pat and then let him outside before heading into the long, narrow room, giving the dangling chain a yank to flood the space with dull light. “See? Another reason to stay in Austin. I need you to keep me in check.”
She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know where you want this thing.”
I slip the watermelon from her grasp, my hand skimming across the flat of her stomach in the process. She inhales sharply, the slight feminine sound rushing blood straight to my groin as I set the fruit on a shelf. “Come on . . . How will I survive without you giving me grief?” I say it with a smile, so she knows I’m teasing.
She slides on a mask of calm indifference. “Hey, I didn’t give you grief for paying a fool’s price for that thing. And there’s no way you’re going to finish it before it goes bad.”
“Actually, it’s all on you. I’m deathly allergic to all melons.”
Her mouth hangs open. “Why the hell would you buy it!” she exclaims, smacking my arm.
I shrug, and then smile sheepishly. “You seemed interested.”
“In the ridiculous size of it, yeah.” She shakes her head. “You’re right. You do need me here to give you grief.” Her throat bobs with a hard swallow, all lightheartedness vanishing. “And I need you because you’re the only one who won’t let me down.”
“But, I have. I didn’t tell—”
“No, Noah.” Her green eyes flitter over my features, stalling on my mouth. “Since you showed up on my doorstep, you have been there for me, every step of the way, whether I deserved it or not. You are everything I could possibly have asked for.” Her face twists with a grimace, as if that’s not a good thing.
The pantry seemed narrow and cramped before. Now I can’t get close enough to her, fast enough. She’s small next to me, and I’m afraid of overwhelming her as my hands settle on her hips, and her head tilts back to meet my eyes. “I’m not going anywhere. And we’re not going to let that asshole Mantis, or anyone who’s responsible, get away with this, I swear it.”
She sighs softly, and I revel in the feel of her breath caressing my skin. “You can’t promise that, Noah. What if we find out something about your mother—”
“Then she’s guilty, and I’ll make sure everyone knows it.” As much as that pains me to even say.
A fire smolders in her gaze. “And what if your mother isn’t the only one close to you who did this?”
She doesn’t have to say Silas’s name. “Then that person will get what’s coming to him, too.” My stomach churns with the thought, but I steel myself against that vulnerability, instead filling my thoughts with Abe, with the emptiness I felt standing in that seedy motel room today, staring down at the spot where he took his last breaths.
Alone.
No doubt, spending those moments thinking of this girl standing in front of me, and how she would remember him. “Your dad . . . he was a good, honest man and he deserves for the world to know that.” I push a wayward curl off her face. “And, even under the shitty circumstances, I can’t tell you how glad I am that you’re back in my life.” I hesitate. “Even if you want it to be just as friends. There’s no pressure here, Gracie. I’m here to stay, no matter what.”
Her eyes settle on my mouth, her own lips parting. “Well, if friends is all you want, then—”
“No, it’s not,” I say, way too eagerly, and then grin, feeling my cheeks heat. I want a hell of a lot more.
A rare wave of shyness radiates from her, and yet she stretches to her tiptoes to trail her cool nose along the side of my neck. “You sure you want to deal with the likes of me? Some people say I’m difficult.” There’s a hint of something in her voice, something exposed. Like she actually may believe that I would second-guess my feelings, that I would decide that she’s too much for me.
My face is buried in her mass of floral-scented curls, so she can’t possibly see my mock frown, but maybe she can hear it in my voice. “Who would say that?”
“I don’t know . . . crazy people?”
“Exactly. I’m not crazy. Are you crazy?” I mimic her words from that first day, remembering how I had to beg her to trust me. Now, those hands that wielded a switchblade are memorizing the feel of my chest. How things have changed.
Her responding chuckle is deep and throaty, sending shivers down my spine. “Sims would say I am.”
I groan at the mention of that asshole. “You really know how to kill the mood.”
“Did I kill the mood for you?”
I shudder against the feel of her tongue trailing along my skin where her nose just touched. And lose my ability to think altogether as her teeth graze my earlobe, at the sound of her shaky breath in my ear as she whispers, “Well, if you don’t feel up to it, I’ll just go and—”
I steal her words with my mouth, my hand slipping around the back of her neck to gain purchase as I kiss her, my fingers weaving into her hair. There’s no hesitation on either of our parts this time, that tentative, sweet tempo of this morning replaced with something more fervent, more needy.
“Believe me, I’m up to it.” My free hand travels down her arm, around her back, pulling her body flush against mine. Erasing any doubt she may have about how “up” to it I am.
Yet still, Gracie goads me. “Prove it,” she purrs against my lips, nose to nose, eyes locked on mine. It’s a challenge.
An invitation.
Maybe, permission.
Whatever it is, I greedily take it, my fingers testing the waistband of her shorts with a quick swipe before slipping beneath her T-shirt. Her breathing turns raspy as I memorize the ridges of her spine first, and then move my hand around to her flat, hard stomach.
Her own hands have found their place on my shoulders now, and they claw and tighten as my fingers venture upward to settle between the swell of her breasts, the lace of her bra itchy against my palm.
Her hands disappear from my shoulders and, a moment later, that lace material loosens, giving me access to her ample breasts. “Since you’re taking your time . . .” She smirks, her fingertips returning to my body—to my chest this time—to softly drag over the ridges of muscle.
I’ve never been nervous with a girl, but with Gracie my gut is rolling with nerves as I push her bra aside and cup her breast, full and heavy within my palm. My thumb grazes against her peaked nipple, eliciting a soft gasp from her against my lips. I’m desperate to see Gracie naked, to trace every one of her curves with my fingers, my tongue.
Yet sudden, rare fear holds me back from making a move.
Fear that she’ll change her mind on a whim, that I want this way more than she does; that, in the end, I won’t be what she wants. I fight desperately to chase that fear away by pulling her mouth into mine, to kiss her like I’m convincing her that I am what she wants. All that she will ever want. I kiss her like I want her to pine over me. I kiss her like I want her to remember this moment in case we never have another chance.
She melts into my body, her hands sliding down to my stomach, hot skin pressed against hot skin, her thumbs teasing my belt line. I feel myself swelling more, and I grit my teeth against the wish that those nimble fingers would make quick work of my buckle and zipper and slide farther down.
Gripping her firm backside, I lift and carry her into a corner, pinning her to the wall with my hips. It gives me easier access to her body and I take it, lifting her shirt high enough to take one of her nipples in my mouth, the delicious scent of peach-scented body wash that lingers on her skin making me inhale deeply.
Gracie moans my name softly, tightening her thighs around my waist.
This is going too far, much too fast. If I take her to my bedroom, I already know I’ll be inside her in minutes like some fool who can’t control himself. So I stay put in these cramped quarters, instead sinking to my knees and maneuvering around, until I’m sitting on the floor with my back to the wall and Gracie is straddling my hips, her eyes wild with need.
“Gracie, I think we should slow down and . . .” My voice fails me as she peels her shirt over her head and shrugs her unfastened bra off, leaving me to gape at her naked breasts, heavy and heaving with each quick breath. I knew her body would be beautiful, but she’s utterly perfect. “You’re . . .” I can’t even get the words out, admiring her bared top half while I run my hands up her muscular thighs, my finger slipping beneath the hem of her shorts. I manage to stop at her panty line, and it takes everything in me to not go farther, to not find out if she’s in the same predicament as I am. And I am in a terrible predicament—I don’t want to rush with her, and yet I’m about to explode, the anticipation too much.
Hooking my hands around the backs of her knees, I pull her body flush against me. “We’re not doing this yet,” I whisper against her lips, my arms folding around her body to hold her close to me.
“You sure about that?” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm.
I hiss as Gracie rolls her hips, pressing hard into me.
“I’m sorry, what did you say? I missed that last part,” she murmurs, cocking her head in mock concern, grinding down on me again. And again, her hips rolling in an erotic dance, the swell of her breasts brushing against my chest.
I hadn’t expected this version of Gracie—seductive, playful, forward.
Who am I kidding? I’m doomed to be a fool.
My head falls back against the wall and I close my eyes. “You wicked woman.”
Gracie’s delightful deep-bellied laughter answers, and she leans in to trace the edge of my neck with her tongue.
I groan as she pushes a hand down between us, to smooth over my length.
“What is that?”
“Uh . . . what do you mean?” That’s a question I’ve never had a girl ask me before, in this particular situation.
Her ragged breathing slows. “No, I’m serious, Noah. It looks like . . . blood?”
Finally I realize she’s intently focused on her fingertips, rubbing something between them. I follow her gaze to the hardwood floor beside us, to the dark crimson smear. It’s definitely fresh blood.
“Did you cut yourself?” Gracie’s hand begins prodding me as she searches.
“No. And that’s a few hours old, at least.” I can tell by the dark line that’s formed around the original drop.
“Maybe Cyclops cut himself?”
“He was outside all day. Besides, the pantry door was closed.”
Throwing her bra and shirt back on, she climbs off my lap and heads out to the kitchen, whistling for him. Meanwhile, a sinking suspicion begins to settle into my stomach.
I stand to get a better look at the floor. That’s when I notice the second blood spot. And a third.
All surrounding my mother’s safe.
Fumbling for my wallet, I fish out the safe combination. Careful not to smear the remaining blood spots, I quickly dial the numbers. I throw open the door.
Four guns still hang in their slots and, while I never counted the boxes of ammunition, it looks like they’re all accounted for.
Everything seems normal.
That is, until I crouch down to inspect the bottom shelf more closely, and spot the brown lunch bag. It’s crinkled with age and handling, and stuffed in a small gap between the ammo and the shelf, at the back.
Did I miss that before?
Did Silas miss it too?
Swallowing against my growing anxiety, I use the hem of my shirt to ease the bag out.
Inside is a handgun.
A Colt .45.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, instantly aware. That’s got to be Abe’s gun. Has it been here all along?
Or did someone break in here today and plant it? If they did . . . how? No one has this combination except me.
Either way, someone was definitely in this house while we were out.
I grab my mom’s Glock and, checking the chamber to make sure it’s loaded, I charge for the backyard, hyperaware of the fact that the alarm was set when we left, which means that person circumvented the system. Someone with the equipment and the know-how to do it.
I find Gracie outside, talking to Mr. Stiles over the fence.
“ . . . he was making one heck of a racket earlier.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We didn’t mean to be gone—”
“You can’t leave dogs outside for hours, unattended!” my neighbor, with his hands on his hips, his gray hair mussed and standing on end, scolds Gracie.
“I know. I’m sorry,” she apologizes in a placating voice that’s so foreign to her. “He’s normally a quiet dog.”
I tuck the gun into the back of my pants and then ease in behind Gracie, settling my hands on her shoulders. Missing the feel of her hands on mine.
“He was barking because someone broke into my house,” I explain.
Gracie tenses. “What?”
“A robbery!” Shock fills Mr. Stiles’s weathered face, the thought of it happening in our peaceful neighborhood appalling. “But don’t you have an alarm?”
“We do.” And common, dumb criminals won’t get past it. But seasoned cops with a history of sneaking in and threatening widowed women are another story. Still, for them to gain access to the safe . . .
“Well, I can’t blame the little guy for all the noise, then.” Stiles’s gray eyes search out Cyclops. He frowns. “What’s he got over there?”
“I don’t think I want to know,” I mutter, following Stiles’s gaze to the far corner of the yard, where the dog is furiously digging in the garden. “Hey! Stop that!”
He peers up at me with a piece of tan-colored material dangling from his mouth.
“Come here, Cy!” Gracie calls.
He trots over obediently, dropping the strip in front of us.
“What is that?” Gracie lifts it in the air so we can all see it more closely.
One side of the material is hemmed while the other side was clearly torn. A spot of crimson stains it. “It looks like it could be from a pant leg!” Mr. Stiles chuckles. “Heck, I think your dog took a chunk out of the burglar!”
“Maybe right out of the guy’s calf. I’ll bet he’s in pain, wherever he is.”
Like possibly in a room with Klein, being questioned by the FBI.
Realization fills Gracie’s face as she catches my drift.
Mr. Stiles’s amusement vanishes abruptly. “You need to call the police, Noah. If there’s a thief targeting homes in this neighborhood—”
“Yes, sir. We’ll get right on that. Sorry again for the noise.” I lead Gracie into the house, Cyclops trotting closely behind, his nose pressed to the floor.
“What do you think that asshole took?” she asks, her voice hard. She’s furious, I realize. And here I was sure she’d be terrified.
“I don’t know if he took anything.” I show her the gun inside the brown bag. “It’s a Colt .45.”
Understanding fills her face. “Is it my dad’s?”
“I’m guessing so . . . yeah.”
“Are you saying Stapley put that in there?”
“Someone did.”
“But . . .” She frowns. “It’s a gun safe. People aren’t supposed to be able to open them. How did he get in there?”
“I don’t know.” Did he actually get into it? Or did he simply try?
Did I miss seeing the bag in the first place?
It’s as if she can read my mind. “Maybe your mom had it all this time.” Accusation doses her words as her gaze wanders the pantry shelves aimlessly, as if searching for an answer among the cans and supplies.
Cyclops starts barking wildly from upstairs.
Gracie and I exchange looks.
Was Stapley alone in this? Is someone still in the house?
Seizing the Glock in my hands, I head for the stairs, my heart thumping in my chest. “Stay here,” I whisper, taking the steps quietly.
The stairs creak behind me. Not a surprise, Gracie isn’t listening.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I’m an idiot, if we should get out of the house and call the cops.
And then I keep going.
Cyclops’s howls of protest are coming from my mother’s room. We find him at the dresser, standing on his hind legs, his front paws pressed against the drawers. Seeing us, he drops to his haunches, his tail wagging furiously.
“What is it, Cy?” Gracie murmurs, edging past me.
He barks in answer, excited.
With a wary look over her shoulder at me, she slowly slides open the top drawer and begins sifting through my mother’s things with a delicate hand. “I don’t know what you want me to see, buddy . . . It’s all the same stuff I saw yester—” Her voice cuts off.
“What?” I edge in next to her, to see the small packet nestled in my mother’s T-shirts. “What is that?”
“My guess is cocaine.”
“Cocaine?” Why the hell would Stapley bother putting drugs in my mother’s drawer?
Gracie looks up at me. “That wasn’t in here yesterday. I went through this drawer for clothes and it was not here yesterday.”
A curse slips out from under my breath as I look around the room. A murder victim’s gun, drugs . . . “What the hell are they up to?”
Gracie’s gaze follows mine. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’re doing the same thing to your mom that they did to my dad—planting things to make her look guilty.” Her mouth twists with a bitter smile as she points to Cyclops, who’s busy sniffing around my mother’s bed frame. “They didn’t expect to contend with him.”
I slide my phone out of my pocket. “We need to call the cops.”
“No! Wait.”
“Gracie, we need to report this. It needs to be on record. That blood is evidence.”
“Yeah, but Stapley and Mantis are the cops.”
“Two dirty ones out of thousands of good ones.” I see where she’s going with this as soon as the words leave my mouth. “But Mantis heads Internal Affairs.”
“You heard him yesterday. He said ‘you wouldn’t believe the kinds of things I can get away with.’ ” She pauses to give me a knowing look. “What if he can make Stapley get away with doing this? Do you want to risk that?” Gracie slides her phone out and starts punching in numbers.