Dispatched Confessions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 2)

by Talia Maxwell

  Joel blew her a kiss. “Your wish is my command, pervert,” he said and then got into his car and drove off.

  Holly hopped back into her house and walked straight back to the kitchen. Xiomara had nearly cleaned up the entire mess of her seafood dinner for two. It was a sex dinner and MiMi knew it. It had you-will-sleep-with-me writing all over easy artisan noodle.

  “Whose ceviche is in the fridge?” Xiomara asked.

  “My friend Gloria made it,” Holly replied while the woman made a face.

  She wandered back and forth from the table to the sink, depositing dishes and pouring dish soap in the pots and pans. Two half-full wine glasses remained when she was done. She’d left them out there like little clues. Then she went into the dining room and returned with the box of condoms, crudely opened, the bow still attached.

  She set it next to the wine and crossed her arms.

  “Did the gentleman leave?” Xiomara asked.

  “Yes,” Holly admitted. She sat down and stared at the woman in her kitchen with embarrassment and disgust, but not as much as she thought she’d have. She sat there also with an underlying sense of pride. “I thought you would’ve called to tell me when you…”

  “I don’t care you who screw,” Xiomara said crassly.

  “That’s good. Because I don’t care what you think either. This is someone I deeply care about…”

  “Certainly you were getting deep with him, yes. Look, you’re forgetting how I found you,” the woman added tersely and she waved her hand around the gleaming space as if it were her own. “You’re a mother for chrissake. Look, we came back in a hurry. It was urgent and immediate,” Xiomara said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “This is none of my business, truly.”

  Except Holly knew she’d tell anyone she came into contact with that she found her perfect son’s ex-wife whoring it up in the pool, which of course was kinda true, because that woman most definitely walked up on her full-intercourse, but the label felt cruel nonetheless.

  “You could have called,” Holly said pointedly.

  Xiomara tilted her head. “Sweetheart. Where would you have put your phone down there anyway?” She rolled her eyes as if this was obvious. “We’re home and it was sudden and I’m sorry I didn’t presume you’d have plans.”

  “What was so urgent?”

  “My life coach is going on vacation and I had to move my appointment.”

  “You are kidding me.” Holly tried and failed to hide her irritation. “I bet Alex was overjoyed to hear which took priority.”

  The women leveled her gaze, but Holly was impervious to Xiomara’s aggressive intrusions and the comments on her adult decisions. When she was married to Francisco, that woman—the matriarch—was the one who held all the real power in the home. Francisco was a slave to his mom’s whims and wishes; she withheld love and gifts and verbal affection, and Holly naively thought she’d someday be able to win the woman’s favor. Oh, how she’d tried.

  If her life then had been a movie, she’d be the tragic ingénue—trying and failing and trying and failing until the woman had her way and she was gone. Divorce didn’t leave Xiomara brokenhearted.

  Around the time her husband left her, Holly stopped trying to convince Xiomara that she was an amazing, worthwhile person. And since she knew she’d never let anyone have complete control over her grandson, Holly could never be rid of her completely.

  “Thanks for taking him,” Holly said and she walked back to her front door, hopeful that Xiomara would take the hint and follow her back outside. “Enjoy your life coach lesson.” The woman left the rest of the dishes and grabbed her purse. She hesitated at the foot of the steps, as if to call up to say goodbye to Alex, but she changed her mind and left swiftly instead, without bothering to say anything else to Holly either.

  Holly leaned against the closed door and took a breath.

  When she felt ready, she ascended the steps to her son.

  Holly remembered when Alex was nine he went away for six weeks to a summer camp. It seemed like an interminable amount of time for the single-mother who missed the noise and constant companionship more than she thought she would. When she went to go pick him up, something she insisted upon, she didn’t recognize him.

  Every cliché came true. He’d started camp at nine as a timid and a tiny child; when she picked him up, the darkness started—the simmering inner-monologue had began, and he was nine, but he was no longer hers. Not entirely. Something had come untethered during those six weeks, something changed his brain. And Holly wondered if it was merely maturity and growth, or if it was darker than that—if Alex had gone away a child and came back so much older, so much wiser, so much more knowing.

  And he was as tall as she was in that moment—from child to boy. She blinked and let him go for too long, and she’d missed it. She never forgave herself.

  When she opened the door to her son’s room, she knew instantly it had happened again. Something in Alex had shifted while he spent time with his grandma.

  Xiomara brought back a changed boy.

  Once again, she blinked. She kept letting go at the worst times.

  “Hey,” Holly said and Alex tilted his head toward her and pulled his headphones off his head to hear her better. She appreciated that he was still respectful and would listen with full attention instead of keeping one in at all times to run as a soundtrack to their conversation. “How was it?”

  “It was a trip with grandma,” he said as if it should explain everything. And it did.

  “She let you drink tequila and made you clean up her vomit?”

  “Only once. But she paid me $300 to clean it, so.”

  “Alex,” Holly said with such disdain that he seemed temporarily chagrined. She tried to recover. “It’s fine. Your grandma is a real piece of work.”

  “I know that. Sure,” he said, but she knew he’d never really turn on Xiomara—not as long as she was cool and young-ish and spent money on him. And paid him money to be her servant child. It was gross. She bit her tongue.

  “You look different,” she said.

  “You always say that,” Alex replied.

  “Because it’s always true,” she said. She sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his calf, the most intimate gesture she could manage. “Alex. I need to know what happened with Claire Gregor. And I need to know about the gun and…everything. Mothers are built with a radar to protect at all costs…and you know that I’m here for you—”

  “Grandma said the same thing,” Alex said.

  Holly sighed. “Are you trying to hurt me?” Her own voice wobbled with emotion and Alex diverted his eyes.

  “No,” he admitted with a heavy breath. “It’s. Um. I don’t want to tell you. It doesn’t matter anyway. I didn’t kill Claire. I didn’t tell anyone to kill Claire. I don’t know who killed her…not yet. Shouldn’t that be enough.”

  “Not yet? So…you think you know who could be involved?”

  “No,” he said with more anger than she’d seen. He turned his back and stared at the wall. “Leave it alone, Mom! Gosh!”

  He still sounded like a child—even as the adult issues swirled around him.

  “Why do you think these questions are an attack?” Holly asked, scooting closer to her son and she patted his arm, even though he didn’t turn toward her.

  “I think these questions aren’t necessary,” Alex answered coldly, pushing his anger away, deeper. “It’s not a big deal mom. My thing with Claire was handled with the note and…” she knew her son and she knew that was a lie, “and…I’m just…”

  “Would you tell me the truth even if you thought I’d be angry?”

  This elicited a response. Something genuine.

  Alex must have heard the sincerity in her voice because he thought and gave the question strong attention. Before he rolled back over he said, “I wouldn’t.” He shied away from her hand and scooted his entire body closer to the wall. “You can’t fix this mom. Since you can’t fix it, you need to drop it
. I can’t have you involved in any way.”

  “That scares me,” Holly admitted. Her dispatch brain ran through all of the people she knew who still had connections to cops and data. If Alex didn’t want to share any details, maybe she needed to learn a few of her own to let him know she wasn’t going to let him get away with silence. “Have you lied to me?”

  “Mom, if I’m in the type of situation where I need to lie to you…I’m probably going to lie about lying.”

  “But you admitted that you’d lie…”

  “You asked a hypothetical question,” Alex argued and ran his hands through his shaking head, eager to wiggle out of the conversation. Holly blushed with the recognition that he was right; she was grasping at hints that didn’t exist, wanting the conversation to keep going. She felt antagonistic and that was the worst thing to be.

  “Alex,” she breathed out. “I want to know what to prepare for.” Holly knew her desires were, admittedly, selfish. “You don’t understand. I haven’t seen you since the day you came home from the Cooper center and I’ve just been waiting…”

  “I saw Mr. Rusk leave,” Alex interrupted, masterfully changing the subject. So, he’d been paying attention to the door and her conversation tactics.

  “Yes. You did. I never told you. We were friends in high school, you know,” Holly tried to say quickly, her mouth dry and mushy. She knew it didn’t matter—she’d lost all credibility with her own child and she felt like a stranger in her own home. She was so grateful her son’s room overlooked the front yard and not the back. “I had him over tonight for dinner. And…we might be seeing more of each other. Maybe.”

  Alex said nothing.

  “Alex—”

  “Yeah, sure, Mom,” Alex mumbled. “You’re seeing my guidance counselor. I don’t need to dissect it. Yuck.”

  She respected his anger.

  In some ways, she’d anticipated and welcomed it. That was something she’d prepared for and expected—that was something normal.

  “Yes.”

  “All the girls think he’s hot. It’s gross.”

  “I’m a little bit more age-appropriate,” Holly said with a glare. Alex rolled his eyes and covered his face with his hands, pushing away the conversation by kicking his leg.

  “Mom, it’s just gross,” he said.

  “I don’t know what’s gross about me finding someone I like spending time with. Your dad has girlfriends—“

  “And it’s gross,” he continued to say.

  “We should talk about it. I feel ready to date. I feel like I need someone in my life and…I want you to understand that it’s okay to feel—”

  “Mom,” Alex said with annoyed whining.

  “—embarrassed to talk about it, but we’re a team and I think it’s important. Besides, you should feel comfortable talking to me about dating…if you’re ready—”

  “Stop, Mom,” Alex said. “I don’t care about you and Mr. Rusk. Whatever. Just. Don’t talk about it, okay?”

  “Sure,” she accepted swiftly. “And if you want to talk to me about…”

  “No,” Alex said and he drew a line between them, clear and sure. She nodded, aware that this was where she had to leave—this was where she was no longer welcome in her child’s life. It was as though she went from beloved secret-keeper to grotesque intruder. And she wasn’t ready; she was panicking a bit at the thought of all her best times with Alex being over.

  As he transitioned to an independent young man, his need for her was gone and she’d have to enjoy her role as someone no longer raising kids. Raising adults, she’d learned from her own journey with her parents, was a different beast.

  She’d tackle that another day.

  Holly couldn’t help but see her son’s shift in attitude when she’d mention dating. His anger turned, briefly, to sadness. She saw it play out on his face in the same way it had as a child when he was getting in trouble. He’d become angry first, a settled fury, and then—as his own hurt settled—his nostrils flared and his eyebrows lifted and turned, his chin wobbled, and he’d have to blink back tears.

  “You okay, sweetheart?” she asked. She looked him straight in the eye and lowered her voice so he knew that she was over the canned bullshit. She wanted truth.

  “No,” Alex said and he bit his lip and tried to steady himself. He was telling the truth and his sunken eyes proved it—he was a kid wracked by emotions beyond his control and understanding.

  “Let me help,” she said.

  “No,” he said again and shook his head. “I wish you could. It’s done—everything you could have helped with is over. It’s just over.” She knew his confession was close; his eyes pooled with tears. She stroked his arm and coaxed him to continue by nodding and frowning.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart,” she reminded him, “nothing you could ever tell me would change the love I have for you.”

  “I know, Mom,” he said. “But you can’t help. I’m just sad. And angry.”

  “Why were you angry at Claire?” Holly tried again. She knew this was at the heart of the issue.

  “Mom,” he said, exasperated. “Stop. I’m begging.” His voice was weak, bursting with mixed emotions. And Holly stopped.

  She knew her son. If she pushed, she’d lose—she needed to tread carefully because it was clear that he was hiding something.

  Big.

  Chapter Twelve

  He admitted to himself that he spent more time working the gossip on the Claire death because it would bring answers for Alex. Holly was beside herself with worry that her son might have had a role in the girl’s death and Joel wanted nothing more than to alleviate that pain for her, but he also felt the adrenaline rush of playing detective.

  He could understand the fascination, the pull of solving a crime.

  And it was selfish, too.

  He liked her. He liked the idea of Holly Bloom—spunky and quick to torment him. She was every bit of that and more. In all of his fantasies, he’d never quite elevated her to sex-craved vixen in his dreams and yet. She’d outdone the fantasy version of herself and Joel was distracted by the idea of her, the faint trail of her, the promise of more time. She’d jerked him off in a pool. He didn’t know how to temper his growing attraction with his job.

  A job that seemed never-ending.

  Someone knocked on his door and he answered. They had a note from their teacher and he looked up. It was one of Claire’s true friends—a real compatriot, not an invented degree of friendships brought on by wayward teenage grief. He looked at the pass and remembered her name: Violet Winslow. Her nose was red and she apologized for her tears before she was even in the room, stammering and shaking her head, looking at everyone in the counseling office.

  He handed her a Kleenex box and she took several in her palm and dotted her eyes and nose periodically with the wad.

  “I’m sorry you’re not doing well,” Joel said and he got up and closed the door and opened the blinds—privacy and transparency, a delicate balance that he was learning to perfect. “What brings you to talk? Something specific? Something general?”

  He felt like it was a stupid question, but Violet didn’t.

  “I guess,” she started, “that I’m just feeling really overwhelmed with Claire’s death. And…I was wondering if you’d heard anything. Heard anything about what happened to her?”

  Violet wiped her nose and Joel tilted his head. “You mean…if they know who killed her?”

  “Have they caught him?” Violet asked in a wide-eyed whisper.

  Joel picked up on the pronoun but didn’t blink or make a face. He didn’t want to spook her into silence. If anyone knew anything about Claire’s life outside of school, it was Violet.

  “They haven’t,” Joel answered truthfully. “But they are closer to catching him and they have many people working on the case—smart people—and I trust them, Violet. I do. No one is going to quit until they find out who killed Claire.”

  “Okay,” she breathed, but she didn’t s
eem relieved. Joel picked up on the subtle dichotomy right away. He was practiced at teenage emotions—and could call bullshit a mile away.

  “Violet,” Joel said, starting off slowly, his eyes kind. “The police need people to tell the things they know so they can catch him faster. Have you already shared with the police what you know?”

  “I don’t know anything,” she said, too fast and too angry to be true. She withdrew back into the chair in his office and started to pick at hangnails.

  “Not anything specific,” he quickly backtracked. “Even what type of friend she was or did she have any newer friends. Who did she eat lunch with? That sort of thing. Everything helps in a murder investigation…”

  He stopped himself, aware that he was too eager to get her to talk and he needed to listen. He settled back. He waited and took a breath. “It’s been hard to get through classes?”

  “I keep thinking about what she would be doing. I keep thinking about the people who don’t know she’s gone and…they’ll find out and…everyone’s world will just end. You know?” Violet trailed off and Joel didn’t interrupt. “Maybe that’s why everyone was drawn to her, why everyone wanted to be her friend.”

  “Yeah, she was a good friend,” Joel agreed, even though he didn’t know, but it seemed like a good thing to say and it was bad to speak ill of the dead.

  “She really was,” Violet agreed. “She liked to make us laugh.” The girl remembered something from long ago and closed her eyes so she could picture the memory more vividly. Somewhere along the way, the memory went south and Violet winced. She looked up at her counselor with dogged determination before she retreated; Joel knew the look a teenager had when they were begging to tell an adult the truth. He glanced out his window to the hallway beyond; Carla passed by and noticed Violet and waved; Violet waved back and gave the woman a sad shrug.