“Are we going in?” Charlotte asks.
Or not.
“Um, Charlotte, would you mind if I just make sure it’s okay for us to be here first? I don’t want to overwhelm her.”
Or have my cover blown.
“Of course, just wave me over when you’re ready,” she tells me absently, typing away on her phone.
I go to ask her if it’s Scott but think better of it. If she gets upset when we’ve run him off, I don’t want her to think it was because I didn’t like him.
The guys can take the fall.
“Okay.”
I leave her texting and head over to the house, one door away from where we’ve parked, and up a small path.
I rap on the door with my knuckles before standing back and waiting for someone to answer.
I hear movement before a loud crash echoes through the house. Seconds later, the door opens and a woman in her mid-twenties stands on the threshold. Her cheeks are flushed with a pink tinge, and although there aren’t any tears in her sparkling blue eyes, I can simply tell she’s been crying by how swollen and bloodshot they are.
“I’m sorry, I can see this isn’t a good time. I can come back,” I tell her, sensing a deep, grieving loss. It’s the same look many of us wore when our grandparents died.
Dread fills my stomach and I want to reach out and hold her, tell her everything will be okay. She folds her arms across her stomach, vulnerability pouring from her.
“It’s okay,” she rushes out when I step away to leave. “What can I help you with?”
The only reason I answer, and the only reason I stay, is because this girl might be fragile, but she’s screaming for a distraction.
“I’m Hayden Carter. I’m looking for Rita Jones,” I tell her, cringing when my thoughts are confirmed.
Her face pales, her bottom lip trembling. “She—she passed away last week.”
Fucking hell.
Sucking in a lungful of air, I move a step forward, taking her by surprise when I hold her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I didn’t know. I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. Did you know my nan?”
“I—I, um.” I pause to gather my nerves. I can’t lie to this woman. She’s already going through enough. She deserves my honesty. “I didn’t personally, no. I’m friends with someone who is looking into the murder of the reporter that came to ask Rita some questions about the break-in.”
I badly want to ask how her nan died, but the timing seems morbid. It can’t be a coincidence that two people connected to the break-ins have died.
“I read about that in the paper. Do you think the two are connected?”
“They aren’t sure. I’m just backtracking her footsteps before the murder,” I partially lie.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know this is a lot to ask, but could me and my cousin,” I begin, pointing to my car, “come in? I’d like to ask some questions about the night of the break-in.”
Her eyebrows scrunch together. “I don’t understand. My nan already gave the police a statement.”
“I know. I’m just wondering what she saw that night that made Christina come here to ask questions.”
She looks back into the house, before nodding. “There’s not a lot I can really tell you. But yes, you can both come in.”
I stop myself from jumping with glee when I remember she’s lost someone.
“I’ll just go get my cousin.”
“All right. Let yourself in, I just want to go sweep some glass up. I’m Beth, by the way.”
I give her a nod before walking back down the path, waving Charlotte over.
She gets out, grabbing the hamper from the backseat. I wait for her to shut the door before locking the car.
“Everything okay?” she asks, reading my face.
“Rita passed away last week. Her granddaughter is there.”
Tears brim the edge of her eyelids. “That poor girl. She must be really hurting. It still hurts when I think of Nan and Granddad. And I bet they didn’t want to risk telling her dad in case he took a turn for the worse.”
I pull her in for a side hug, careful not to knock into the tea hamper. Losing Nan and Granddad had been hard on all of us. They were the heart of the family and we all truly felt their loss.
“They went together and weren’t in pain,” I remind her, knowing it was the only saving grace of their death. They weren’t alone. It doesn’t change how much we miss them, or how hard it was to move through our grief, but it does help. “And let’s not mention the dad in case it brings up more bad memories.”
“Let’s see if there’s anything we can do to help. She’s probably going through one of the hardest parts of losing someone.”
I look up at the two-storey bricked house, sighing. Charlotte’s right. When we cleaned out Nan and Granddad’s, it was tougher than the funeral in some ways. It truly felt like a goodbye. None of us wanted to give or throw away anything that belonged to the two most important people in our lives. It felt like we were erasing them. It wasn’t odds and ends, it was their life. Where we grew up. The only saving grace during that whole ordeal was we knew we wouldn’t have to watch someone else live there.
“Come on,” I tell her, leading her up to the door and letting us in.
“I’ve put the kettle on,” Beth announces, stepping into the hallway.
I look around the small hallway with stairs leading up. The beige walls have lighter marks where pictures used to hang. The green patterned carpet is lighter where furniture used to be. I look at Beth once again, seeing nothing but sadness.
I feel guilty for being here, for intruding on such an emotional and dreadful time.
“We got your nan this, but, um, we didn’t know…” Charlotte trails off.
“Is that earl tea?”
Charlotte beams. “There’s lavender in there too.”
“My favourite,” she tells us, before she loses her smile. “My nan’s too.”
“I’m Charlotte,” she greets. “Did you want me to put this in the kitchen? It’s kind of heavy.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry. Where are my manners? Come in. The kitchen is through there.”
Beth leads us through a set of glass doors with dark wooden frames and into a living room.
“Why don’t I make us all one,” Charlotte offers when she sees the state of the living room. “You should sit down for five minutes.”
“Thank you. It’s just through that door,” she explains, pointing to the far left. She surveys the mess and winces. “Let me clear some of this up so you can sit down.”
“I’ll help,” I tell her, helping her transfer some of her nan’s belongings to the floor in a neat pile.
“How did your nan die, if you don’t mind me asking?”
She sits down on the wicca chair as I take a seat on the brown two-seater.
“I don’t mind at all. It’s still a shock, if I’m honest. They ruled it as a heart attack. I think getting herself worked up over the break-in caused it. I live an hour away and was on my way over when her care assistant called to tell me she had passed.”
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” I tell her sincerely. “What did you mean, she was getting herself worked up?”
She runs a hand over her jogging bottoms. “There’s something you need to understand about my nan; she hadn’t been well for a while. She hasn’t been with it lately. For months we’ve had a call-out care assistant check in on her. She’s been forgetful, suffering with mild insomnia, and hallucinating at times. When we spoke the week of her death, she feared she was being watched and would rant about them knowing she saw something and were trying to shut her up.”
“Saw?”
“The break-in. She saw who did it.”
“You didn’t believe her?”
“I’m honestly not sure. It didn’t seem like her usual ramblings or conspiracies to me. She was genuinely scared for her life. She changed a lot after she gave those statements; more
lucid and less scatty. In a way, I worried she would leave a stove on. Instead, she just seemed quiet, distracted and withdrawn.”
“Did she witness them breaking in or running out?”
“Nan said she saw a young male lurking around outside when she came down to make a cup of tea. She couldn’t remember what compelled her to look outside. She was going to call the police, but her mind got distracted and she must have forgotten. She went back up to bed when she heard cars pulling into the street and saw the flashing lights. She said she went to the window that looks out onto the alley and part of the street to take a nosey. She said the young man from earlier was there with another man. They were arguing and the young man had blood on his cheek.”
“Do you have a record of who took the statement?”
“I wasn’t here for them. The break-in happened early hours of the morning and I didn’t get here until ten. By then, they had already taken notes of what she saw. To be honest, I don’t think they took her seriously, from what she told me. I think she kept getting the events of the night muddled and was changing her footsteps of what lead up to what she saw. The only thing that didn’t change was what she witnessed.”
“What about the second statement?”
“She didn’t really want to talk about it to me. It was actually Joyce, her carer, who mentioned there was a second one. She didn’t like the vibe she got from the officer or my nan’s behaviour after he left. She seemed skittish and withdrawn.”
This is the information. This is what Christina had been looking into.
I don’t want to scare Beth, but I can’t leave without asking. “Are you sure it was a police officer?”
“I asked the same thing. Joyce said he was in full uniform.”
“What company does Joyce work for? Do you know if Christina asked for her details?”
“I only got the end of the conversation between the two, so not that I know of. She did speak like the officer and the guy from the alley were the same person, but like I said, I missed half of what was said. From what I read, though, they didn’t catch who broke in, so that can’t be true.”
She really has no clue. I need proof, but if I were to guess, it was an officer in that alley, and that it was the guy who attacked Mrs Sutherland. It makes sense as to why Rita’s statement went missing. I just need proof of his involvement. He could be protecting a family member.
“Here you go,” Charlotte announces, walking into the room and passing us each a mug of tea.
“Thank you,” Beth tells her, before looking at me. “Do you think it was the same person? Was she right and someone scared my nan that bad it caused her to have a heart attack?”
I glance at Charlotte, who’s distracted by the piles of pictures. “I really can’t answer that, but I know someone who can find out the answer. You can trust him too. He’s marrying my cousin and completely trustworthy.”
“Please,” she pleads, tears slipping free. “I just need answers, but a part of me is wondering if that’s to satisfy my own failings. I should have tried harder to find a job closer to her.”
“You can’t take on that guilt. I’ll do what I can. I promise.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like us to stay and help you? We know from experience how hard this is and it seems your nan was a hoarder like ours. You shouldn’t be doing this alone,” Charlotte offers, giving her a gentle smile.
“You don’t need to do that,” Beth informs us, her expression crumbling.
“She’s right, you shouldn’t be doing this alone.”
She nods, wiping away her tears. “Thank you. It’s been Nan and I for so long. I did try to reach out to friends, but they’re all busy with work.”
My phone begins to ring, and I groan at the inappropriate timing.
“Give me two minutes and I’ll gladly help you. I just need to answer this.”
I quickly rush to answer, getting up from the chair and heading outside as Charlotte begins to chat to her.
“Hello?”
“We’ll talk about you ignoring me all night after you tell me why you are calling the local paper and hounding them about a reporter that was killed,” Clayton grits out.
I should put the phone down and pretend my battery died. But I don’t. I hate that my stomach swirls at the sound of his voice.
“None of your business.”
“Well, you see, it is. You work for me, and looking into dangerous stories is not part of your job description,” he bites out, his voice harder.
“What I do in my spare time is none of your concern.”
“This is about the break-ins, isn’t it? I told you not to look into that story, Hayden. It’s dangerous. A woman was kidnapped and killed. What are you thinking, risking your life for a story we won’t even publish?”
My back straightens, and I grit my teeth to the point my jaw hurts.
“Who said it was for your company?”
“What else would it be for?” he snaps.
“For my blog.”
“Your blog?”
“Yes.”
“You have a blog?” he asks, not sounding convinced.
“I will. I have my cousin’s girlfriend building me a website.”
I don’t, but I will. It’s something I want to do and no man or job will stop me.
“This is absurd. Do you have any idea of the danger you’re putting yourself in? You’ll stop looking into this right away, Hayden, or so help me God, I will—”
“You’ll do nothing because you don’t own me,” I tell him, raising my voice a little. I’m fuming. I don’t get mad, I get even, so Clayton getting a rise out of me only makes me madder.
“Hayden, I’m not kidding with you right now. This isn’t your job. Your job is to give advice and answer questions, not risk your life doing a cop’s work. Put an end to this. I’m not having you bring bad press to this company because you were idiotic. And I won’t have you using my company’s name to open doors for people to feed this hobby you have.”
Yet again, he proves what a prick he is. How dare he squelch my dreams like they mean nothing. How dare he categorise it as a hobby.
“Now we’ve got that cleared up, we need to talk about last night,” he tells me, his voice lowering.
“Clayton?”
“Yes.”
“Respectfully, fuck off. I’m the kind of person who will put you in my boot and help the police look for your body. Don’t piss me off.”
I end the call, silencing it when it begins to ring again.
Charlotte steps out, glancing behind her before speaking, lowering her voice. “I can totally understand why they didn’t tell Rita’s dad now. He’s ancient. Mrs Jones was eighty-five when she passed.”
I need a drink.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Avoiding Clayton had gone successfully all week, up until this point. Now, the man is sat opposite me, waiting rather impatiently while I quickly answer another call. Trying to ignore him is impossible. If he sighs one more time he’s going to get a microphone shoved down his throat. And he’s looking at me like I just keyed his car. If anyone has a right to be pissed here, it’s me, not him.
I guess after ignoring his calls and dodging him at work, he’s finally reached his limit and feels like he has the right to be pissed.
It doesn’t change anything.
I don’t need him to sit me down and tell me all the reasons why he shouldn’t have kissed me. If he does, I’ll give him a list of ways in which I’ll get revenge.
He’s waiting for me to finish up, but that isn’t happening as I press for another call.
“Hello, Russ, what can we help you with today?” I ask, focusing on the sheet in front of me and not Clayton, who has begun to twirl his fist in a circle, silently telling me to wind this up.
Completely ignoring him, I continue doing my job, not caring that I’ve gone over ten minutes already. I’m kind of hoping that if I take long enough, he’ll get bored and leave.
&
nbsp; “Yeah. A while back, a crazy girlfriend went psycho on me because I wasn’t into her sick and twisted kinks. I love her, I do, but I can’t get past it. We’ve tried having basic sex, but she doesn’t get turned on, not like she does when her, um, kinks are involved. What can I do to stop it?”
There are not many times where I can say that I’ve frozen, but right now, all I can do is gape at the microphone, at the sound of his voice, before glaring up at Clayton, placing all the blame on him. If I hadn’t been so off my game in his presence, I would have picked up on who the caller was.
“Hello?” Russell calls, but I can’t form a word, let alone a sentence.
Eyebrows drawn together, Clayton then gives a small shake of his head, silently asking me what’s wrong.
“Have you tried to get into her kinks, Russ?” Clayton answers when it becomes apparent that I’m not going to.
“It’s wrong, man. How do I get her to stop liking it?”
“You can’t get her to stop liking it. Everyone has their kinks. Some people fantasise about being in control, being submissive, or enjoy the adrenaline of being caught. There is never just one. Have you tried to talk to her and ask her what it is about it that turns her on? Maybe you can meet her halfway.”
“There’s no talking to her. I’ve tried. I’m the only one who will even touch her because of it. The girl is crazy.”
Snapping out of it, I run everything he said through my mind. I can’t tell if he’s the woman in this scenario, and I’m the crazy part, or if he’s actually met a girl with this fetish. From the way I left him on New Year, I’m guessing it’s the first.
I’m not sure if he knows this is my show, but either way, I’m not letting this go.
“What is this kink?” I ask, deepening my voice a little, causing frowns from Chrissy and Clayton. “It could help give you answers.”
“She, um, she likes a golden shower and other stuff deposited on her?”
“Is that a question?”
“Yes. No. Can you help make it stop or not?” he barks out.
“I’m not sure. It seems to me this is a form of dominance. Do you like being submissive?”
“What? I’m dominant. No bitch is going to tell me what to do.”
Hayden (A Next Generation Carter Brother Novel Book 4) Page 13
