The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

20. Nora

Nora

she says it so softly I almost miss i t

“ G et up, Nora.” Detective Andrews—Rachel—stands over me, hovering impatiently. Flicking my eyes up, trying to look at her, trying to force all the hatred I feel into my icy stare. But tears burn my eyes and when I blink them back, my rage banks. All that’s left in its place is a sense of defeat so profound it leaves me weak.

I’ll do whatever she wants, whatever she needs, anything to get her the fuck out of my house. She told me to get up; I try. But shock has frozen my limbs and Dima being shot by the police has frozen my heart.

“Come on.” She wraps her hands around my arms and tugs. Like a puppet, I move, mutely, to the sofa.

The house is in a state of turmoil. Men and women rush from one room to the next. Some carry boxes of our belongings, some are empty-handed, others taking photographs. A chorus of smashing glass and the splintering sound of doors rushes at me. I want to hide, to bury my fa ce in my hands, to make myself so small and insignificant… To just disappear.

Rachel’s talking, her mouth moving almost comically as her expression changes from consideration to irritation. She snaps her fingers in front of my face. I make a lame attempt to force my brain to focus on her words, to hear anything other than the roaring pain that’s arrived with the destruction of everything I love. As soon as her words form clearly in my mind, two officers drag Ricky through the living room in handcuffs.

“Nonny,” he shouts. He looks utterly pathetic in his silky black pajamas, his face ruddy with rage. I tuck the image away deep in my mind. Maybe one day I’ll remember it without the blemish of this heartache. Maybe one day I’d laugh about it. At him.

“Don’t worry, your boyfriend’s in a police cruiser heading to the station too,” Rachel says. My eyes snap to hers.

“August.” His name slips between my lips like a plea. There’s no one to save me from what’s about to happen. No one to call. No one to hide behind.

“I’ll be back in a second to ask you a few questions. Stay here,” she says, waiting for me to acknowledge her words. I just stare blankly ahead. “Nora,” she barks my name, the loud snap of her voice making me jump. “Stay here, do not fucking move.” I can’t bring myself to answer. I’ll stay here. I won’t fucking move. I couldn’t move if I tried.

My eyes burn into the cheap suit jacket covering her back as she walks away. She stops briefly to talk to the two officers. One of them shot Dima. I don’t know which one. But I map every inch of their faces, marking them for death. A death I will deliver with a smile on my face.

Ther e are at least five other people here with me. All of them are occupied with documenting and dissecting my life. All of them wholly focused on their task of painting me, and Ricky, as a villain. A sick part of me roots for their success, for them to find what they need.

One of the police officers picks up a picture of me and my parents. It’s sat on the mantle for years. A perfect moment, suspended in time. He sneers at me before smashing it on the floor. The sound of the glass breaking shatters something inside me. And even though I’m not in the pool, I feel that blackness slip over my mind. I feel that darkness dragging me down.

“Comb the loft,” someone says in the hallway. I smile. They won’t find anything there. I’ve tucked my laptop away in a meticulously hidden safe under the floorboards. And if, by some miracle, they happen to find it... Go ahead, comb the loft, fuckers.

“Nora,” Rachel says as she appears in the living room doorway. “The medics just left with…” She pauses, the wheels of her mind turning over whatever information she holds in there. But I realize then she doesn’t even know Dima’s name.

“Dima,” I spit out. Hate twists with rage inside me until I feel sick. “The person you very nearly killed her name is Dima.”

Rachel watches me, shifting slightly on her feet. “She didn’t die.”

“Yet. But Detective Andrews, if she does die, her death will be yours.”

She sighs. “It won’t be the first, or the last.” There’s zero emotion in her words, zero remorse.

“Is this because of August?” I ask, softly. “Some jilted lover revenge plan?” It’s an unfair question and one saturated in spite. To level this accusation at her when we’re in a room filled with her colleagues... “He fucked you and y ou wanted more, only he didn’t and now—” I gesture to the room, deciding I don’t care about her reputation.

“Thank you for that segue.” She drops into the seat opposite me. “Tell me about August. When did he start working for Ricky?” She pulls her little notepad out of her pocket and taps the pen on the cover.

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice flat.

“Okay, let’s try a different question. What does he do for Ricky?” she asks.

“I don’t know,” I repeat.

“Fair enough. I mean, after all, you’re what, exactly? Just a spoiled little princess who isn’t involved in anything. They probably don’t tell you anything.” She smirks at me. It’s an attempt to rouse my anger, to stoke at my ego, to get me to tell her I’m not just a spoiled little princess. Only, she has no idea how true and how wrong her statement is. I know just enough. Enough to hang myself and no one else.

“What can you tell me about Ricky?” She pushes.

“He gives wonderful hugs,” I say, offering a smile I know is psychotic.

“I love good hugs. Where does he run his drug trafficking from? Hell’s Basin, or somewhere else?”

“I don’t know,” I say again.

“You don’t know where he runs it from or you don’t know anything about it?” She has to know how insignificant I am to whatever Ricky’s drug operation is. If I was involved, she would have known who I was when she’d accosted me on the steps. But she didn’t. Which means she’s still trying to piece together where I fit in.

I ro ll my eyes. “I don’t know.”

She places the notebook on the coffee table and leans back on the sofa, watching me with predatory focus. “What do you know, Nora?”

“I know that one of your men almost killed the only person in this entire world who has ever been kind to me.” A truth. The only one she’ll get from me.

Rachel chews on the inside of her cheek, staring at me, before blowing out a breath. “I’m sorry about August’s grandmother,” she says it so softly I almost miss it. Almost. My eyes snap to hers as a million questions flood my mind. I won’t give her the satisfaction of asking a single one. “You didn’t know? Maybe you really don’t know anything.” She seems to think about that for a second, as her revelation leaves me reeling.

August’s grandmother. I try to think about all the interactions they’ve had. Does Ricky know?

Her words run on a loop in my mind. But I can’t think of them right now. I can’t examine the credence with which they’re delivered, because at that moment, the medic walks in. My eyes dart to him as he walks over to whisper something to Rachel, something I can’t hear. Tears well in my eyes as the man walks away. I want to demand to know what he said. I want to beg for any scrap of information about Dima. I stay silent.

“We grew up together.” Her words pull my gaze away from the retreating medic and back to her cold, emotionless face. “August and I, in Hell’s Basin. He was so kind. Most of the boys in The Basin weren’t. His mom was sick. When she died—we were in high school—he changed. Dima, she left to work for your parents, I assume. And he turned into someone I didn’t recognize.” Her forehead creases as if her words transport her back in time. “One night I was out, and I bumped into him. He was about to join the military. For a moment, that kindness, the boy I used to know, returned. But it flickered away before I could truly register it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, some faraway part of my mind whispering that I know the kindness she’s talking about, that I’ve seen it in him. As recently as a few days ago when he made me lunch and got me period supplies.

“You don’t know him, Nora. You’re protecting these men, and you don’t know them.” She stands and looks down at me. “I still need a statement from you, but call your lawyer.” She glances toward the front door and smiles maliciously. “He’ll probably have his hands full with Ricky, but call him. Come down to the station when you’re ready to talk. Don’t make me come find you, Nora.”

H ours pass. Hours that stretch and drag like days. Shock and misery war for dominance in my heart. Eventually, the police officers and SWAT teams clear out. The house returns to its usual a tomb of silence. Only this time, the familiar silence feels final and lifeless in a way it’s never felt before. The quiet rustling of leaves replaces the laughter and chatter from the security team, who usually stand guard outside. The sound of Dima cooking in the kitchen is replaced with guttural sobbing that shakes my entire body. I am alone—truly alone—for the first time in my life.

At some point, I move from the couch to the kitchen. Then I’m racing outside, racing toward Dima’s cottage, to the last place I saw her. The sun is bright, high in the sky, heat beating down on me as I stare at the grass patch where she fell. The grass is bright, green and verdant, except for one spot. One spot that’s crusted over. Dima’s blood. Dropping to my knees in front of the congealed pool, I trail my fingers through it. Cold and sticky. I feel the wetness of it seep into the fabric of my pajama pants. Hot tears splash onto the grass as I cry for the freedom we’ll never get, and the life she’d hidden from me, and for the person I’m becoming. I cry until the razor-sharp pain lancing through my heart is all I feel.

As my shoulders shake under the weight of my tears, I rip at the grass, ripping at the blood-stained lawn, ripping at every inch of earth marred with it. I rip and rip until my cuticles bleed, and then I rip some more. My hands are smeared with dirt and grass and blood and I have no idea if it’s mine or Dima’s. All I know is I can’t stop. I can’t stop until every drop is ripped away.

Grief has robbed me of awareness. I don’t register I’m no longer alone until I feel his large, warm hand brush against my shoulder. Cringing out of the touch, I scuttle across the grass and stare up at August.

“You didn’t tell me.” My words are an accusation. I brandish them like a weapon. He didn’t tell me. She didn’t tell me. Why?

“You’re bleeding, Nora.” He takes a step toward me, and I crawl back, doing my best to get away from him.

“You didn’t tell me she was your grandmother,” I say again.

“You need to clean your hands.” He’s staring at the patch of grass, at the blood and dirt covering me.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me she was your grandmother, August?” I scream as my patience snaps.

Painful silence hangs between us and for a second, I allow myself to see the hurt in his eyes, to see the agony he must feel. I allow myself to consider his loss. Before I can say or act on my moment of empathy, his phone rings.

Pulling it out of his pocket, he stares at the screen before answering, “Hi Stephen.”

I hold my breath as Ricky’s voice, not Stephen’s, booms through the phone. “Put me on speakerphone.”