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

21. Nora

Nora

Wherever my path leads from here on out, it won’t be back to this house.

A ugust's intense gaze remains fixed on me as he pulls the phone from his ear and presses the speakerphone button, projecting Ricky's voice across the garden. “Bring Nonny to the police station. Stephen is waiting so he can be with her when she makes her statement. When you’re done, take her to a safe house.”

My heart lurches in my chest. “No, Ricky. No, I can’t go. We need to go to the hospital to check on Dima.”

“For fucks sake, Nonny. Listen for once. You need to go today. Pack enough to last at least a week. Give August the directions to the house at the lake. As soon as it’s safe, you can come back.” He takes a deep breath. One that tells me my arguing annoys him. “August, we’ve been over this. You know what I expect of you, follow my instructions to the letter. Keep Nora safe. Your life is forfeit if anything happens to her.”

“Ricky, no,” I insist. “I need to go to Dima. She can’t be alone. She deserves more than that. What if she dies? What if I don’t get to say goodb—”

“Fuck Dima,” he roars. Whatever patience he’d gathered for this conversation has now completely dissolved. August flinches at his words momentarily before his cold, disinterested mask slips back into place. I can’t do this.

Turning my back on him and the call, I try to soothe the ache growing inside me. After more muttered words to Ricky, August hangs up. The soft splash of his phone hitting the surface of the pool is the only sound around us until I hear his labored breathing. Fuck him; I don’t bother turning around. If he cared about Dima, he would’ve fought Ricky, too.

“You need to get cleaned up and pack,” he says. Turning to face him, my eyes spitting venom. “Jesus, grow up Nora.” He drags a hand down his face before he goes on. “There are bigger things at play here than your little tantrum. Get your shit together. We’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

It takes every ounce of effort remaining in my body to pull myself up off the grass and sprint inside. But once I do, my legs fly, carrying me up the stairs to the loft as rage burns away the last of my heartache.

Storming into my room, my eyes catalog and then ignore the mess as I pad over to the small drop safe hidden beneath the floorboards.

Falling to the floor, relief weakens my limbs as the lock clicks open. Reaching for my laptop—still sitting snuggly there—I lift it out, then set it aside. The fake passport I worked on last year is next and then my hands close around the stacks of cash I’ve ferreted away, thanks to Alley and our fake I.D. side hustle. It’s close to sixty thousand dollars. The pistol tucked all the way in the back of the safe blinks in the late morning sunlight. Carefully, I lift it out. I need it. I need all of it. I’m fucking running. The first chance I get, I’m running.

After tossing random bits of clothing into an overnight bag, I rush through a shower and then tug on a soft wool dress. We’ll play this game one last time, this role of Ricky’s puppet, dancing on command. Show up at the station, regurgitate whatever lies Stephen’s already prepared for me. One last time, I can do it one last time. Cringing as I move in front of the mirror. Shit, I look like absolute garbage. My eyes are red and swollen, my skin blotchy. Fuck bothering with makeup. I want to look as authentically wrecked as possible.

Spinning on my heel, I march to my bedroom door, fling it open, and then stop.

August’s leaning against the banister of the staircase, waiting on the landing like a good little shadow. He steps forward and takes the overnight bag off my shoulder before wordlessly making his way down the staircase.

I don’t lock the house, pulling the heavy front door closed behind me. This house, the only home I’ve ever known, won’t get a goodbye from me. I won’t be back. Wherever my path leads from here on out, it won’t be back to this house.

S hifting uncomfortably on the hard plastic chairs in the waiting area of the police station, the clock ticks away. We’ve sat here for fifteen minutes, no sign of Stephen or Rachel. The matronly woman behind th e reception desk eyes August and me suspiciously every chance she gets.

He looks like death incarnate, and me in my blush pink wool dress and face marked with tears… I have no idea what the fuck I look like. After five more minutes pass in strained silence, I get fidgety, tapping my foot. Stephen chooses that moment to emerge from the back bullpen. Hot on his heels is a detective I don’t recognize.

“Nora, are you ready, hun?” he asks me with his usual smarmy brand of concern. Looking over at the detective, my heads dips in confirmation. “I’ll just need a moment to confer with my client before we begin, detective,” Stephen says to the man. After standing, they lead me through the chaos of the bullpen to one of the interrogation rooms in the back.

Stephen practically slams the door in the detective’s face before he turns on me. “Are you okay?” he asks in a hushed tone.

“I guess,” I answer, apathetically.

“I’m so sorry about Dima, Nora. I’ve already made a statement that I will ensure gets the Internal Affairs’ attention it needs.” I smile weakly at his promise. I do not know how true his words are and in this current state, I struggle to care.

“What do you need from me?” I ask, desperate to steer this meeting back on track, desperate to get the fuck out of here.

“Ricky’s being brought up on charges of drug trafficking. They hit a trap house last night in Hell’s Basin and they found his DNA at the scene.”

A shocked laugh rushes out of me. “That has to be a plant. He’d never.”

“I know, the problem is, he was so sure it was a mistake. He volunteered a sample when he was brought in and now we have a very difficult and expensive problem to fix.” Stephen sighs as I stare at him. It’s incomprehensible that Ricky would volunteer anything to the police, but then again, his arrogance has always been his greatest weakness. “We’re not sure if the plant was police work or a move from King that police just capitalized on. Either way, I think they’re using it as an excuse to keep him here while they do more digging. You’ll need to provide him with an alibi for the night they’ll ask you about, and everything else is no comment. You got it?” I nod. I got it.

“Great,” he says, walking over to the door to let the detective in.

The detective asks me several leading questions, which I ignore. When it comes down to the alibi, I say what Stephen wants me to say with confidence. While Ricky has never been arrested before, we’ve gone over the process should it happen. Every word I utter in this room can be backed up with evidence that’s been fabricated months ago. Every time Ricky leaves our house to do whatever it is he does, I am his alibi. It’s airtight.

Once the detective wraps up his questions, I break character for a moment, a calculated risk because I need to know. “When will Ricky be released?” A manufactured sob breaks up my words. The truth is, I need to know how much time I have. A window of opportunity has appeared in front of me. I need to know if it’s enough.

“He won’t,” the detective says, grinning at me.

Stephen sighs. “They’ve blocked his bail, Nora. He’ll probably be inside for a week or less.”

“Or forever?” The detective laughs.

Wishful thinking.

When we step back into the reception area, August’s pacing the length of the plastic chairs. “Everything okay?” he asks, rushing forward.

“Oh yes, Nora is a gem.” Stephen ruffles my hair like I’m five.

August eyes us and clears his throat. “We’re leaving,” he says, reaching for my arm. I sidestep him with as much grace as I can muster.

“Bye Stephen,” I say over my shoulder, as August and I walk side-by-side out of the station.

After clipping in my seatbelt, I move to plug the address of the safe house into his new phone’s GPS.

“Not yet.” August’s hand rests on top of mine, stopping me.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer me, simply watches the road before pulling out of the parking lot and driving in whatever direction he’s decided on.

After a few minutes, we join the highway, the one that leads to Hell’s Basin. August is tense, his shoulders hunched up, stiff, while his jaw ticks away. I try and fail to hide my smirk. I’m bordering on hysteria. Everything that’s happened since I opened my eyes this morning suddenly feels like an anchor dragging my brain to the depths of insanity.

“What?” he asks, looking over at me.

“Oh nothing. Just you know…” Smiling my deranged little smile, I gesture wildly at the empty space in front of me. “All of this is just a lot. I woke up this morning and SWAT raided my house, my nanny was shot in front of me. I still don’t know if she’s alive or dead. Oh, and then I found out she’s not just my nanny, she’s your grandmother, too. Then my legal guardian and de facto father was dragged off to prison with you. How are you free, by the way? I forgot to ask.” I blow out an exasperated breath.

He t urns off the highway and into the parkade we used the day we visited Dahlia Heights. God, that feels like years ago.

“What are we doing here?” I ask.

“Changing cars. This one was parked at the house during the raid and then again at the police station. Can’t be too safe.” He parks next to a luxury black SUV and climbs out. “Come on,” he says seconds before slamming his car door in my face.

The new car smells new, rich—leather and money. I used to love this smell. Inhaling deeply, I use the rearview mirror to watch August’s shove our bags in the trunk. The door thunders shut and then he’s next to me. The delicious smell of his soap and his brain-melting cologne infects the acrid smell of leather and money.

“Put the address in the GPS,” he says, tapping his finger against the screen of his phone.

“How do you know this car is safe?” I ask.

He turns on the AC and sighs. “Because I swept it myself.”

“There,” I mutter, sitting back in my seat as the route to the safe house lights up the screen. Six fucking hours in a car with him.

“We’ll drive for three hours and then stop for the night.” That’s all he says as we head out of the parkade and onto the highway.

I’m content to let the suffocating silence stretch between us until I’m not.

“Does Ricky know?” I look over at him. “That Dima’s your grandmother?” I don’t need to clarify, but I can’t stop myself. Something in me rejoices at the anguish on his face, however brief it is.

“He does,” August answers.

“Why didn’t you or Dima tell me?” This is the only question I truly want answered. The only answer I’m desperate for. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, but his eyes remain fixed on the road. The question festers between us for a few minutes until he finally glances at me.

“What would have changed if you knew, Nora?”