Laura Kaye - Hard As It Gets

He rose and met each of their gazes. “Don’t thank me yet. If Church has your brother, this situation is real serious. And it’s likely to get worse before it gets better.”

“Hey, Nick? I found something,” Becca said when they got back in the Charger.

He and Beckett turned in his seat toward her. “What?” Nick asked.

She fished the necklace they’d retrieved from the maid out of her pocket and opened it. “Look at the inside surfaces in the light.”

Nick turned on the overheads and held it up. Someone had carved letters and numbers into the silver. “Were these here before?”

“No. The pictures that were in there were mine, so I know there wasn’t writing in there before. Charlie had to have done this after he took it. No idea what it means, though.”

Beckett reached for the necklace. “You drive. I’ll call this in to Marz. He can start running searches on both strings.”

Not long after, Rixey eased the Charger into a spot across the street from Becca’s house. His gut told him bringing her here was a bad idea on about fifty-two levels—especially with what they’d just found at Charlie’s. But if he was going to live up to his word, he had to be a partner and not a dictator, much as that sometimes sucked—not because he wanted to control her but because he wanted Becca safe and happy.

And her house was damn unlikely to achieve either of those goals right now.

He turned in the driver’s seat and met her expectant gaze. God, even with everything the day had thrown at her, she was beautiful and brave and still clinging to hope. And with what they’d learned at Walt’s tonight, holding onto any kind of positivity was a damned act of heroism.

“No more than ten minutes, Becca. You’re not going to have time to tour the whole place. Find the things you want to take, throw them in a bag, and we’re back out the door.”

She nodded, clearly eager to go inside.

Shane was on the sidewalk, weapon drawn, methodically scanning the street.

“Okay, here we go.” Nick unholstered his gun and nodded at Beckett, then the two men got out and Rixey released the seat forward for her. Bracing herself on his hand, she stepped onto the pavement, and Nick was on her like white on rice. He hustled her across the road, Shane and Beckett flanking them. Key in hand before they hit the steps, Rixey reached around her when they got to the door and slid the grooved metal home. Inside, he flicked the switches on the front wall and urged her in so the guys could enter behind them. Last in, Shane secured the door.

Nick was wishing they’d made this trip during the day so the interior lights wouldn’t have advertised their presence when he heard her.

“Holy shit. Ho-ly shit. Holy freaking shit.”

Standing in the middle of what looked like a tornado’s debris, Becca surveyed the damage as she turned in a slow circle, her face pale with shock. When her eyes landed on him, it was like being sucker punched in the solar plexus—her pain and fear sucked the wind right out of his lungs.

He crossed the room and took her hands. “When this is all over, we’ll make this right. Okay? Important thing is your safety. You weren’t here when they did this, and I don’t want you to be here should they decide to return.”

She heaved a shaky breath. “Right. Okay. Um, I think everything I want is upstairs.” A series of expressions played out over her pretty face, and he literally watched her shove back the panic and steel herself.

Shane and Beckett took up positions at the first-floor doors as Rixey followed her up the stairs. He felt her sense of loss like a jagged rock in his gut. And, man, he would’ve done anything to bear that burden for her. But sometimes life forced you to walk through the shit whether you had a good pair of boots or not—and it was apparently Becca’s turn.

Sonofabitch.

From the steps, she made for the bathroom, but stopped abruptly with an “oh” when she turned on the light. The mirror was shattered, shards everywhere. “Jesus. I’ll never get the glass out of the bottom of my shoes if I go in there. Who would do this?”

“Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it.”

“I’ve got a professional first-responders-type first-aid kit in that closet over there,” she said. “Thought it might be good to have on hand.”

Hanging onto the molding, Nick leaned in and grabbed a towel off the bar. He flipped out the fabric and settled it over most of the glass. The terry muted the sound of the crunching as he crossed the narrow room.

“It’s a red backpack.”

In the closet, the pack easily stood out. He slung it over his shoulder. “Anything else?” Something caught his eye and he grabbed and tossed it to her. “How ’bout that?”

Becca squeaked but caught the yellow rubber ducky in her hands. She laughed. They didn’t have time to play around, but the thirty seconds it took to distract her from the horror that was her house was worth it. “Actually, Shiloh might like this. She doesn’t have any toys.”

He grimaced. “That’s not a dog name. She’s a guard dog. She needs a strong name.” Under his feet, the glass crunched again as he made his way out. He dropped the backpack at the top of the steps.

“I know. I just need five concentrated minutes to really think about it,” she said, stepping into her bedroom doorway. “Oh, God.” She hit the overhead light switch and went utterly still as her gaze scanned over the room. The sudden gasp and sob ran ice down Rixey’s spine. Becca bolted over the wreckage, her feet slipping.

“Becca?”

“No. No, no, no.” She scrabbled on hands and knees over her bed and clutched at the fretboard of the destroyed guitar lying on the far side. She hugged it to her chest, shoulders shaking and gasping around suppressed sobs, and the wires dragged still-connected pieces of the guitar’s bridge and body into her lap. She caved in over it, her back trembling and tense. “No, no,” she rasped, tears choking off her voice.

Nick’s throat went tight and he was beside her in an instant, wrapping himself around her and whispering soft shushes. “It’s okay, sunshine. It’s okay.” The words felt like crushed glass in his mouth because, whatever this was, it wasn’t in the same fucking zip code as okay.

“Is not . . . was . . . Sc-Scott’s,” she managed around hitches of breath. “Was all . . . all . . . I had . . . l-left.”

Sinking onto the edge of the mattress, he pulled her whole body into his lap, settled her face into the crook of his neck, and held her close. Her hand fisted so tight into his shirt that it would probably never fit the same, but he didn’t care. He’d bear anything if she didn’t have to be going through this right now. She shook against him and held her breath in an effort to restrain the overflow of emotion, and Nick just rubbed her back and kissed her sweaty forehead and vowed on his dead parents’ graves he would find the animals responsible for hurting her. Then he’d take those motherfuckers down.

Slowly, the shuddering became less severe and her breathing calmed. Rixey was acutely aware that they’d been at the house longer than they should, but he also didn’t want to further upset her.

She slipped her hand between their bodies and wiped at her face.

He tugged up the bottom of his shirt and held it out. “Here. Use me.”

A single sad, choked laugh escaped her, but she took him up on her offer, burying her face into his chest as she dried her eyes on the hem of his shirt. When she let it go, it was damp against his skin.

Still in his lap, she eased upright. “Do you . . . h-have . . . a knife?”

Holding her, he leaned over and retrieved the blade from his ankle sheath. “What do you need?”

“Will it cut these wires fr-free?” She blew out a breath, trying to calm herself. “Stupid, but I want to take this.” Her knuckles were nearly white from gripping the fretboard so hard.

The blade made quick work of slicing through the metal wires. “It’s not stupid at all.” He returned the knife to its hiding place, then cupped her face in his hand. Eyes puffy, face red, damp hair sticking to the sides of her cheeks, she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. “I know it’s not fair for me to rush you, but we—”

“I know.” She pushed off his chest.

He held her tight another moment. When her sad blue eyes flipped up to his face, he leaned in slowly and kissed her on the lips. No pressure. No heat. Just a tender press of flesh on flesh to let her know he was there. “Whoever did this, Becca, I’m going to make them pay.” He helped her to her feet.

When she got down, she moved quickly, almost mechanically, retrieving some clothing here, loose pictures there, and a handful of jewelry she was able to fish out of the mess on the floor. “My bracelet,” she gasped, pulling a strand of silver charms out from under a pile of crushed seashells. “It was from my dad.” She clipped it to her wrist.

“Careful, Becca,” he said as she picked through the debris. Shattered glass and sharp-edged shells were everywhere.

“I will. This is my mom’s jewelry box. Where the locket was.” She lifted the wooden box, now mostly empty. “I wonder . . .” Pulling out the bottom drawer, she reached her hand in. Something clicked, and a drawer popped out on the back. A small sheet of paper sat within. She gasped.

Nick crouched beside her.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Charlie used to love to play with this when we were kids. He was absolutely fascinated with the hidden compartment. My mom would leave dollar bills in it for him to find.” She unfolded the small, square sheet. It read, “WCE 754374329 United Bank of Singapore 12M.” What in the world? “Those are the same letters and numbers as in the locket. It’s a bank account?”