Journey’s smile was a ghost of its former self. “I don’t deserve you.”
“Let’s be honest—we’re both messes. But at least we have each other.”
“Until you admit that you’re head over heels for my cousin.”
Samara froze. There was no point in arguing, because it was the truth. She’d gone and fallen for the one man who would complicate her life the most. She still wasn’t convinced it wouldn’t blow up in her face, but she…cared for him. “Whatever happens with him, that doesn’t change our friendship.”
“Glad to hear it.” Journey shooed her. “Now, get out of my office and get back to your investigating.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.”
Samara left. She did her best to look like she wasn’t fleeing, but she didn’t want to get cornered by Lydia before she escaped. What am I going to do on Monday? It defied comprehension that they could maintain this level of tension for another five days, but there was no reason to think the situation wouldn’t be resolved one way or another by that point.
Wishful thinking.
She ignored the little voice inside her and headed for home, her phone and the evidence it contained clutched in her hand the whole way.
“It’s pig blood.”
Beckett stared at the destruction in his condo. Nothing had been spared. Not the kitchen, where every single plate and glass he owned had been shattered. Not the living room, where the couch cushions had been ripped to shreds. Not his bedroom, including the locked cabinet where he’d stashed the things he’d collected from Thistledown Villa.
He walked to that cabinet in a haze and picked up the baby book, drenched with blood. Ruined. Completely ruined. It wasn’t enough that she took the house. She had to try to ruin the memories, too. He set it carefully back in its place and noticed that one photo had been spared, tucked as it was just out of the spray. The one of him and his mother in the field behind Thistledown. He tucked it into his suit-jacket pocket and turned to the detective. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
The wiry redhead—Detective Purcell—looked distinctly uncomfortable. He didn’t exactly shift in place, but he had a nervous energy about him that implied being still wasn’t in his nature. “The blood tests came back. It’s not human—it’s pig blood. We’ve cataloged the scene and taken pictures to document everything, but if you find anything missing of note, we’ll need to know.”
Beckett couldn’t think past the blood marring everything of value he owned. He fought down the desire to throw open every window as if that would cleanse his home of the taint the intruder had left behind. “This building has extensive security. How did this person get in here?”
“Inconclusive. The tapes show nothing—we’ve checked—so it looks like they were hacked and put on a loop.” Detective Purcell clenched and unclenched his fists as if taking that dead end personally. “Until we have more information, it would be best if you stayed somewhere else.”
Unable to look at the disaster of his bedroom a second longer, Beckett turned and stalked back toward the front door, where Frank waited. His friend’s calm mask was firmly in place, and he eyed the detective as if the man was wasting both their time. “I trust Beckett isn’t under suspicion any longer.”
“His alibi checks out.” Detective Purcell didn’t sound the least bit sorry that he’d been under investigation to begin with, no matter how briefly. He glanced at Beckett. “Don’t leave town, though.”
“I have no plans to.” Everything he needed to deal with was in Houston.
“Good. That’s good.”
Frank looked at Beckett, then turned for the door. “Let’s go.”
He turned and took one last look at the ruin. Lydia might not have really taken everything from him, but he couldn’t disentangle from the grief lurking just beyond his aura of numbness. He didn’t give a fuck about the furniture or the condo, but losing the baby book and pictures felt like losing his mother all over again.
He couldn’t do it. “Just a moment,” he murmured to Frank.
Beckett crunched over the broken glass to the drawer where he stored the plastic bags. He retreated back to the bedroom and carefully enclosed the baby book in a bag. There was no saving it, but he wasn’t ready to give it up yet. She knew how to hit you where it hurt, again and again, and she didn’t pull her punches.
On the heels of that: The old man would be pleased that I’m finally losing the last bit of evidence that my mother ever existed.
Once the bag was safely sealed, he stalked out the front door, past Frank, and down the stairs. The thought of being enclosed in the elevator for the few minutes it would take to get to the ground floor was too much.
Frank kept pace easily. “You want to talk about it?”
“No.” Not now. Not while the wound was so raw it was practically throbbing. If he let go now, he would be worthless until he worked through the rage rising up within him. He stopped on the next landing. “I want you to know I appreciate that you’re here—that you looked into my father’s death. It’s not your job, and you’ve put in way too much time on this.” He didn’t offer to pay his friend—it would be an insult, and Frank wouldn’t hesitate to let him know.
“I’ve worked hard to ensure my company can function without me for short periods of time.” Frank hesitated, like he’d leave it at that, but finally pushed forward. “You’re my only fucking friend, Beck, and I know all too well what it’s like to have unanswered questions about a parent’s death. You need me—I’m there. End of story.”
“Same goes, though I’m not much use at the moment.”
Frank stared at something over Beckett’s shoulder, as if the whole
