“Thorough,” Drake notes.

“Obsessive,” Brody counters. “Although it’s real fun to watch.”

“I can still hear you.” After finishing with the DVDs, I check in and around the entertainment stand.

“How badly is she going to hurt us if we don’t help?” Dev laughs. “And do I have to be here?”

“No,” Drake replies, his attention still on me as I move into the kitchen. “I’m not your superior, so you can do what you want, and I can’t make Brody stay until his shift officially starts at three. The only one who has to stay is me.”

I open what appears to be the pots cabinet. It stretches right back, and I poke my head in to see if there’s anything stuffed down there. That’s where I’d hide something. In that little nook no one can ever get anything in or out of unless it’s a straw.

“You could easily delegate this to her,” Dev laughs again. “You’re only stayin’ ’cause she’s your girlfriend.”

Waitwhatnow?

“Ow! Fuck!” My head collides with the shelf, and I scoot backwards, keeping my head down, before I sit up. Ouch. That really hurt.

“Are you all right?” Drake asks, coming into the kitchen flanked by my brothers.

“Fine,” I lie, rubbing the back of my head. “I misjudged where the shelf ended and space started.”

“More like you heard me say the word ‘girlfriend,’” Dev teases.

“Or I could shut your mouth for you.” I smile sweetly and close the cabinet door.

Drake takes a deep breath and looks at them. “I have to stay because she’s a danger to herself. She’s probably given herself a concussion and she’s only been doing it for fifteen minutes.”

“I have not given myself a concussion.” I hope. “It’s a little knock. People bang their heads all the time.” Just not on cabinet shelves because they’re trying to find…something. “Y’all are distractin’ me with your chitchat. I mean it: Help me or go.”

Drake pulls some gloves from his pockets and snaps them with a sigh. I shoot him a glare as Dev groans and holds his hand out toward Drake.

“I’ll help,” he says with reluctance. “She’ll probably lock herself in a closet or somethin’.”

“Or fall over a roll of toilet paper,” Brody adds, taking a pair from Drake, too.

I smile sweetly, making sure to meet each of their gazes. “Well, aren’t y’all sweet?”

Devin points a latex-clad finger at me. “This is the Italian blood deciding that helping family is more important than going home and having sex with my fiancée. Don’t think I’m bein’ nice.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice,” I return dryly. Too much information, brother. Ew.

“All right,” Drake says, pulling his shoulders back and taking charge.

So much for this being my bright idea. He always has to be the king of every search. Pain in the damn ass.

“Before we dive right in blindly,” he goes on, shooting an amused but fond look my way, “let’s narrow down our options to realistic somethings.”

“Nah. I like my somethings the way most men like women’s legs. Wide open.” I grin. “I’m going upstairs to search. You narrow down your somethings while I go somewhere I can’t hurt myself.”

“You could drown in the bathroom,” Brody offers helpfully.

“Yeah… Or I could flush your head down the toilet. Stay away. I’m dangerous.” I make an X with my fingers before going upstairs as quickly as my shoes will allow me.

The low hum of the guys talking downstairs fills the empty space up here. I’m thankful for it because there’s something incredibly freaky about going into the bedroom of a dead person. It’s not even like I believe in ghosts, so I’m not going to get possessed or something, but ah.

I’ve never liked this part of investigating. Bedrooms are so very personal. From panties and pictures to vibrators.

Her bedroom door is ajar, so I push on it slowly. It creaks, making this all the more ominous. Damn, maybe there is a ghost. That stuff happens in movies, right?

I did not get enough sleep last night. Or enough coffee this morning.

I smack my lips together as I cast my eyes over her bedroom. Cute. White with accents of lilac and light blue. In actuality, there’s nothing special about it. There’s a bed with a headboard, a dresser, a vanity littered with jewelry holders, and a three-door closet with mirrors.

I crouch a little to see if there are any boxes under the bed. Once I see the empty space, I turn my attention to the vanity. She had good taste in jewelry. I can spy several of the new collection from Alex and Ani I’ll neither confirm nor deny that I’ve been adding and removing to my basket for two weeks.

The dresser holds photo after photo, and it feels intrusive and cliché, but if the evidence is a note or photo, then it’s a foolproof place to hide it. Carefully, I lay each framed photo down on top of the dresser and turn the little clasps.

My phone vibrates from its home inside my bra with a text. I secure the back of one photo, stand the frame up, and pull out my phone. As I tap at the screen, it occurs to me that my phone can’t sense my thumb, so I pull my glove off and open the message. I don’t know the number, and I frown at the words.

You’re wasting your time.

Then the bang happens.

Glass shatters as the booming sound of a two gunshots echoes through the air. I clap my hand over my mouth and drop to the floor, crawling around the side of the dresser. I pull my gun from the holster on my thigh with one hand and help myself back up with the other, staying low. The bedroom window has been shot at, a single bullet hole piercing the lower left corner, and despite the pane being covered with cracks, it’s still intact and safely left in the window frame.

The bullet, however, is in the wall, about two inches down from the ceiling.

What kind of an idiot shoots through an upstairs window and expects to fucking hit someone?

Bitch, please. We’re not all LeBron James.

I go downstairs quietly, but the sound of Devin’s hard voice on the phone requesting an ambulance has my heart jumping out of my chest.

That better be a fucking window ambulance he’s calling.

My chest is tight as I get down the last couple of stairs, my gun still in my hand. I follow the sounds of their voices into the study at the front of the house.

My baby brother is sitting against the wall, sweat dripping down his pale face, his hand on his side. Drake pulls his shirt over his head and balls it up to press against him.

I see the blood seeping onto Brody’s light-blue T-shirt before Drake can cover it up. “Brody!”

“I’m fine,” he grinds out, his eyes screwed shut.

“Yeah, all right.” I kneel down next to him and put my gun on the floor. “What happened?”

“We were in here searching. Then the bullets came flying in. One here, one somewhere else,” Drake explains.

“The bedroom,” I explain. “Went straight into the wall. Right after I got a text saying we’re wasting our time.”

Drake’s face hardens as Brody cries out.

“Shh,” I whisper, turning to my baby brother and cupping his face with my hands. “You’re gonna be okay, Brodes. I promise.”

He nods, and tears spring to my eyes. Jesus, I’ve never seen him in this much pain.

“Stay with me. Don’t you dare pass out.” I lightly slap his cheeks, and he forces his eyes open. “Okay. You can’t sleep yet. The ambulance is coming. You’re not allowed to go anywhere.”

He nods again, but this time, it’s much jerkier than before. His fist clenches against the floor, and I touch my forehead to his before dropping a kiss against his clammy skin.

Please, God. If you’re real and you can hear this and you aren’t fed up of me taking your name in vain ten times a day or my nonna’s endless requests, please make sure my baby brother is okay.

And for the first time in my life, sirens are welcome.

The lights flash through the window, and Drake climbs over Brody’s legs without nudging him.