That was true. Bram didn’t do technology.
Hell, he didn’t even have a cell phone. Never had, and according to him, never would.
If we needed him, we had to hope that one of the club was with him, or that he was home and paying attention enough to answer his house phone.
“She’s got a phone,” I said. “That first day we met, she took a picture of me and saved it under the name ‘bae.’”
There was more giggling from my side, which warmed my heart a bit more.
“These accusations are some that most wouldn’t throw around like that, however,” Bram supplied. “So either she’s not worried that she’ll get caught, or she truly believes that what she’s doing is right. And neither fuckin’ one will end up well for her.”
“You would know crazy, wouldn’t you,” Haggard teased. “With that wife…”
“Don’t you fuckin’ dare talk about her like that,” Bram snarled, breaking into Haggard’s almost pronouncement about Dorcas, Bram’s wife.
Haggard raised his brows at our younger brother and said, “Since when do you…”
“Since whenever the fuck I want to,” Bram barked. “Now shut the fuck up.”
There was a moment of silence as both clubs gathered around the large table in the dining room, processed Bram’s words.
Haggard sighed and said, “Whatever.”
“Back to what we were talking about before,” Hunt said. “She looks fairly normal on paper. Hank was able to find quite a bit, saving me the trouble. But everything that she’s interested in doesn’t seem that bad. Hank sent Donnelly to her house, though. I’m hacking into their security feed right now to watch.”
So that was what we did for the next few minutes. Watched as Donnelly walked into Sareen’s house as if he owned the place, and took a look around.
At first, nothing was too bad.
She was clean to the point of being anal, and there wasn’t a single speck of dirt, dust, or out-of-place material at all.
Her house had all white furniture, and there wasn’t a single mark on the entire place, not the walls, or the floor, or the ceiling, that wasn’t white.
“I think that’s psycho right there,” my brother offered. “Who the fuck decorates in white walls, white ceilings, and white floors? And the white furniture? Does she never plan to live there?”
“You have white furniture, don’t you?” I asked curiously.
“Well, yeah.” He laughed. “But that was old furniture. And the furniture isn’t white anymore. Not thanks to Hiro or anything that boy does.”
That was true.
The last time I’d talked to Beck, otherwise known as Beckham, my brother’s wife, Hiro had puked on it twice because of a stomach bug he’d been battling.
I imagined there wasn’t much white going on with that particular couch anymore.
We continued on Donnelly’s journey through the house until he reached the kitchen.
“Umm,” Donnelly said as he paused, reading something I couldn’t see. “There’s a note… from you.”
“Yeah, no,” I disagreed almost immediately. “There’s nothing from me.”
“There’s most definitely a note,” Donnelley countered with my statement. “But it looks like she’s writing it to herself. Look and see.”
He held the note up in a way his camera, which I realized must’ve been on his shirt, one of the new bodycams we got in a few weeks ago with a government grant, could see it.
I read the note. Then reread it again.
Because my brother was a big, scary dude who’d seen prison time for nearly killing his best friend. A man who’d hurt his wife.
He was scary protective and gave off this ‘don’t fuck with me or I’ll straight up kill you and not lose sleep over it’ vibe.
He was definitely hard to love sometimes, too.
Mostly when you were a grown-ass man, and that overprotective love overextended to you.
I didn’t need his protection like I used to, yet he was always there, smothering me with it if I gave him half a chance.