Well, he’d already broken that vow earlier. Not that he’d set foot too far inside. He hadn’t made it to the second or third floor. Or the towers. Or the basement Roger referred to as the dungeon. He knew himself well enough not to tackle that subterranean space on his own. He’d call his brothers in to help with that.
His brothers. He needed to let them know his change of plans. They’d worry if he didn’t make it home. Also, being on the phone with one when he reentered the castle seemed like a good idea. Pulling out his device, he brought it to life, then hesitated. He didn’t want to call Mantis. As their president, he’dbe expecting Monk’s call. But Mantis’s ability to read him—to read anyone—was more than Monk wanted to deal with.
There were thirteen others to choose from, but it didn’t take more than a few seconds to settle on Lovell. Understated and sparse with his words, Monk would get the connection he needed without a lot of questions.
Scrolling through the numbers, he tapped Lovell’s name and a second later, the phone started ringing as he walked to the employee entrance.
“You good?” Lovell asked when the call connected.
“Been better, but okay.” Monk paused to type in the code. “I’m going to stay a few days, though,” he said, pushing through the door. It snicked shut and the familiar smells of oak, leather, and wine wrapped around him.
“You’re gonna stay.” A question, but also a statement.
He reset the alarm before walking down a hall lined with offices, private tasting rooms, and a small kitchen, before stopping at the entrance to the large public tasting room. His gaze scanned the area: five high tops, three groupings of chairs, two long couches, a synthetic Christmas tree decorated in the corner, and a fireplace, its mantel cheerily bedecked with holiday greens and ornaments. Continuing toward a group of leather chairs, he sank into one closest to the unlit hearth.
“Yeah. I…need to be here.”
“Why?” Lovell didn’t say a lot, but he also didn’t beat around the bush.
“Helia.”
“Helia Shaw?” All his brothers knew about the Shaws. “What about her?”
He hesitated. His gut told him the situation was off, but what did he know? He hadn’t seen Helia in years. He knew nothing of her life or the people in it. Still…
“Her family’s property abuts the winery’s. I went over to say hi to her and her parents. When I got there, a guy she’d dated a couple of times was insisting she give him another chance.” The scene played out in his mind. The fear on Helia’s face solidifying a quiet rage inside him, like a core of cold steel.
“He had his hand on her,” he added. Lovell remained silent, but Monk felt his brother’s anger through their connection. All the Falcons had grown up in violent homes, and none of them took that shit lightly.
“You gonna look into him?”
He’d been too distracted by Justin Flannery’s death to consider that, but it was a good idea. Both men needed looking into.
“Yeah, but that’s not the end of it. Less than two hours later, two detectives knock on her door wanting to talk with her. Turns out one of her exes—a real one this time, she dated the guy for two years—turned up dead this morning. After he, too, tried getting back together with her.”
“No commentary on Helia, but I don’t like it.”
“I don’t either,” Monk replied.
“What’d the guy die of?”
“The detectives didn’t say, but it sure as shit wasn’t natural. Whether it was murder or an accident, like an overdose, I don’t know.” He kicked his feet out and considered starting a fire when he ended the call. The tasting room didn’t hold the same memories that the rest of the castle did. Maybe he’d sleep on the sofa down here.
“Call Leo,” Lovell said, referring to a friend of the club who had mad cyber skills. And one who’d likely become family sometime in the next six months if Monk had to guess. His girlfriend Josephine, aka Joey, was Charlotte’s twin sister, and everyone expected Mantis to propose to Charley over theholidays. Monk had his money on New Year’s Day and figured Leo and Joey would follow soon after.
“Yeah, I might do that.” He’d dig around on his own first.
“When’s the memorial?”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Lovell made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a “hmm.” “Call if you need anything.”
“I will. Let the others know? I’m on shift at Rita’s in a few days. Hopefully, I’ll be back by then.” This close to the holidays, Rita’s, the bar the club owned, was a busy place seven days a week.
“We got it if you’re not.”
“Roger that. I’ll keep you posted.” They ended the call, and he sat in the silence that followed—there was nothing like the quiet that filled a space typically bustling with people. It held a weight that other kinds of quiet didn’t.
