Murder Notes (Lilah Love 1)

It’s not really a question, but since he’s looking at me like he wants an answer, it’s easier to give him one than not. “I believe it is,” I concur.

“Your boss is a bastard. Loose lead, my ass.” His gaze sharpens. “Did you follow it or did it follow you?”

“I have no reason to believe it followed me.”

“And yet it happened the night you arrived.”

“You’ve already stated these facts.”

“You don’t think it’s odd timing?”

“It’s curious.”

“Curious?” he demands. “It sounds like a gift left by an admiring killer or a damn threat.”

“Fuck me, Andrew,” I say, moving him away from the case. “I don’t remember you saying damn this much.”

“I damn sure remember you saying fuck all the damn time.”

“Fond memories, aren’t they?”

He scowls at me and then his phone starts ringing again. He grabs it from his pocket and glances at the number. “Dad,” he tells me, answering before I can demand he not. “She’s right here,” he says to him, eyeing me. “Yes. Hold on. I’ll put you on speaker.”

“No!” I mouth, waving my hands, but he does it anyway and sets the phone on the counter.

“You’re live with Lilah,” Andrew announces.

“Why the hell are you here without telling us?” comes the gruff, fierce demand of my father’s familiar voice. “How about the gift of a phone call followed by a hug, instead of a dead body?”

“Good to hear your voice, Dad,” I say, hugging myself again, and now it’s my turn to glower at Andrew.

My brother, in turn, seems to have confused my scowl with a smile and answers for me. “She wanted to surprise us,” Andrew replies.

“With a dead body?” my father demands.

“Oh Jesus fuck, you Love men are drama queens. I didn’t drop a dead body off when I got here.”

“Fuck?” my father demands. “Your mother—”

“Was trapped by the spotlight,” I say, “or she would have been letting it fly, too.”

Andrew jumps in and gets to the point. “Are you claiming jurisdiction on this case?”

“Not yet,” I say, “but I need full access to every detail.”

“I’ve had three phone calls about you being at the crime scene,” my father says. “It’s sent tongues wagging. People are nervous.”

“Murder does that to people,” I say.

“The feds do that to people,” my father corrects. “We need to have a press conference at daybreak tomorrow.”

“A press conference is a bad idea,” I say.

“We’re having a press conference,” my father reiterates.

“Tell them I happened to be here and Andrew asked me to help.”

“We’ll tell them together,” my father says. “You need to be there and at dinner tomorrow night. I need to go.” But he doesn’t go. He hesitates and uses what I call his “Dad” tone, a softer hard, which is his best attempt at tender. “Lilah,” he says. “Good to have you home, even if it is a bloody return.” He hangs up, ending any impact of his “tender” moment abruptly. What the hell is it with these men just hanging up on me?

Andrew snatches his phone and it immediately beeps with a text he glances at, his sharp expression telling me he is not pleased even before he looks at me again. “I have to go handle this problem.” But like Dad, he doesn’t go. He stays, his attention fixed on me. “You look good. Thin, but good.”

I roll my eyes and reply, “You look good. A little chubbier than before, but good.”

He laughs. “I have never been chubby in my life,” he says, already heading to the doorway leading to the foyer.

“You might not be chubby,” I call out, “but you are an asshole. Don’t tell a girl she’s fat or a little thin. You tell her she looks good. She looks beautiful. No wonder you’re single.”

He stops in the archway and turns to face me. “About that. I’m not single and I should warn you before you find out the wrong way. I’m dating Samantha Young.”

I blanch but recover quickly, certain I’ve misunderstood. “What?” I ask, stunned. “As in, the Samantha Young?”

He laughs. “Yes. The Samantha Young.”

He’s amused as if this is nothing, when he knows damn well he’s just punched me in the gut. “For how long?”

“Six months and I know there’s no love lost between the two of you, but we’re going to fix that.”

“She dated my ex. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

“It’s a small town and it was years ago.”

“Andrew—”

“Lilah,” he says firmly, a warning in his tone. “I have to go. I’ll be at the station at seven.” He turns and starts walking.

“That’s it?” I demand to his broad shoulders. “We aren’t going to talk about this?”

“Come lock up,” he calls out, disappearing into the hallway.

I purse my lips and pursue him, fully intending to let him know what I think about this piece of news. But by the time I’ve entered the foyer, he’s about to exit the house when he stops dead in his tracks. I follow his gaze to the corner where Cujo rests, my lips thinning. Damn it, he’s going to make this an issue. Sure enough, he rotates to face me, his blue eyes keenly locked on my face. “Why do you have a shotgun by the door?”

I walk to Cujo and pick him up, facing Andrew. “This is in case you piss me off. You did.”

“Lilah,” he warns again. He’s always warning me in our conversations. It’s his thing. I decide to turn the tables.

“I’m holding a loaded weapon, Andrew. You could at least act a little intimidated.”

“I’m shaking in my size-thirteen boots. But now—”

“Thirteen?” I give him an appalled look, glancing down at the growths at the end of his legs. “Wow. Those really are monsters. When did they get that big?” I glance up at him. “Please tell me you have the equipment to back those up. If not, that would be downright embarrassing. I mean—”

“Stop talking,” he says, clearly not enjoying my attempt to divert his questions. “What is going on with you?”

I stare at him, blink

ing several times.

“Lilah,” he growls. “Answer me.”

“You said stop talking.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass.” He scowls. “I want an answer.”

“Dead bodies make me nervous,” I lie, though they obviously don’t. Puddles of blood and brain splatter are another story. It’s illogical, of course, that a corpse is fine but other matter is not, but it’s just my reality, one I don’t share with anyone.

“You’ve investigated at least a dozen murders. How can that be possible?”

He’s way off on that number, but correcting him seems counterproductive to my agenda to dodge and weave. “We all have our crosses to bear.”

He narrows his eyes on me. “If you were here—”

“I am home and I still have my shotgun in my hand.”

“Family delivers security.”

His phone rings and he gives me another scowl like I’ve conjured up the interruption. He snatches his phone. “We’re not done talking about this.” He turns and opens the door before I can stop him.

“We need to talk about—”

He shuts it in my face, and I add, “Samantha, Andrew. The woman who fucked Kane this very night.” I take a step and fully intend to talk some sense into him right here and now. Logic prevails, though, and I cradle Cujo, lock the door, and then reset the alarm. Calling him the idiot he’s being wouldn’t go over well, and that’s exactly what I would do. Neither, likely, would me telling him that Samantha is a skank, a bitch, a ho who likes Kane naked as much as she does him. I lean on the door. Samantha Young? How can he be dating Samantha-freaking-Young? This is insanity. The woman fucked Kane. A detail he will find out when presented with Kane’s alibi, which I suddenly need to confirm.

I reach for my phone in my pocket and realize it’s upstairs. Another save I need because I would have called Kane, and I’m not sure that is the right move in this moment. Besides, I know Kane. No matter what he knows or doesn’t know about my brother and Samantha, he’ll tell me he did Andrew a favor by showing him who Samantha really is. But doesn’t my brother already know who she is? Her family’s corrupt. She’s corrupt. What am I missing here? A lot, obviously, that I can’t change right now, which means I need to focus on what I can. Finding my Junior and my assassin.