A moment goes by before he joins me, and I hear him muttering to himself in between the click, click, click of his camera for the evidence he’s recording. When he finally makes his way over to where I’m still standing, I don’t say a word.
“Fuck me,” he says under his breath before glancing over. “She know who did this?”
“I’d bet money on it.” Pressing my lips firmly together to try and tamp down the rage I feel building inside of me, I let out a long breath. “I’m going to bring her home and send in a cleaning crew to try and fix this mess.”
Feeling his eyes on me, I don’t turn his way, still taking in the scene before us. He jots down notes, takes photos and enters the bedroom as carefully as possible in order to make his way to the attached bathroom.
I didn’t expect that to be spared—I’d hoped, of course, but didn’t expect it. From the way Ty utters a string of curse words, it hasn’t been.
“If I were a betting man, I’d put all my money on the fact that someone is none too pleased with your woman.”
Fuck. “Now, whatever makes you say that?” I grumble sarcastically. “Was it the sweet Lying slut! message on the television? Or maybe the fascinating artwork here in the bedroom?”
“Or maybe the You belong to me! message on her bathroom mirror?” Ty adds drily.
“Fucking fantastic.” I run my hands over my face, the start of scruff along my jawline rasping beneath my fingers.
Damn it. Noelle’s in some deep shit, and there’s no way in hell I can leave her to fend for herself. One night at my place while I have her place cleaned and fixed up, safer than before is one thing. But now? Now, I don’t know if I can stomach the idea of having her stay here by herself even with better quality locks.
Ty steps back out and walks over to me. “I’m going to see if I can get any prints before I head out and chat with her. See if I can get her to give me some info, a statement, so I can file this.”
“Roger that. Thanks, again, man.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He shakes his head with a smile. “You can thank me by dropping by with some of your mom’s home cooking sometime.”
“Done,” I agree with a weak smile. As he leaves, I back away, leaning against the wall, staring directly across into Noelle’s bedroom.
“Davis, Davis, Davis,” I mutter under my breath. “What kind of shit did you get yourself into in Destin?”
Chapter Six
Noelle
Ty Dennison. That’s the deputy’s name that arrives at Foster’s beckoning. He’s one of those men who has an easy-going demeanor, a kind smile that somehow puts you at ease in his presence.
Exactly what I need.
Except when he comes back outside after getting a good look at the damage, that easy-going smile has vanished. And I know, right then, it’s far worse than I could have imagined.
Stepping to the side, casually leaning against the side of the house, he directs his attention to me. “You know who did this.”
It’s a statement. As if he’s already determined the answer. And I realize how dumb I am to think anyone with an ounce of brainpower could see the mess inside my house and believe it wasn’t personal.
Denial? It ain’t just a river in Egypt.
Letting out a long sigh, looking away, concentrating on petting Harley’s soft fur, I nod slowly.
“It’s best to get this reported in case things … escalate.”
I nod again as I internally laugh. Escalate? That’s a joke, right? I mean, come on. As if having your home broken into, crap purposely spilled out onto your furniture, and nasty names written on your TV isn’t an escalated situation?
“Ms. Davis, I—”
“Noelle,” I interrupt him. Because deep down, a part of me has the fear—or possibly more of a premonition—that we’ll end up on a first name basis soon enough.
“Noelle,” Ty repeats before adding, “I’m going to need you to tell me everything you can about who did this.”
“Everything, huh?” I huff out a humorless laugh because where do I even start? Looking back up at the handsome deputy, I nod toward one of the steps nearby. “Might want to get comfortable.”
He moves to lean against the railing, gaze intent, and he’s got that I’m here to help look.
“I’m ready when you are.” Ty’s tone is kind, gentle and, for once, I feel like I can trust him, can trust someone in a law enforcement uniform. Because Foster clearly vouches for him and that, in itself, is more soothing than I can admit. So I do something I had hoped—prayed—I wouldn’t have to do since moving to Fernandina Beach.
I tell him my story.
As I go through everything, it’s as though I’m having an out of body experience, my voice sounds detached as if I’m telling it from an outsider’s perspective and not as the person who experienced it.