20. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
The Gallagher feeds have been closed for three hours.
Three hours. Not that I'm counting. The fact that I know the exact amount of time probably means I should be concerned.
I glance toward the laptop sitting on the coffee table.
Then immediately look away.
No. Absolutely not.
The last thing I need is another lecture from Rachel about boundaries. Or another look from Callum. Or another conversation with myself about how watching Maeve Gallagher through security cameras is not normal behavior.
The problem is that every time I close the laptop, my brain starts creating scenarios.
What if Ronan came home early? What if she had another bad day? What if—I exhale sharply. This is exactly why people call me obsessive. Because once something gets into my head, it stays there.
Like a song you can't stop hearing. Or a code problem you can't stop solving. Or a redhead who keeps showing up in your thoughts at three in the morning.
The realization is deeply irritating. The television drones quietly in the background while files for Grayline's newest contract cover the coffee table.
Kidnapping. Ransom demand. Two-state search area. The kind of operation that should have my complete attention. Instead I've reread the same page four times.
My eyes drift toward the laptop again.
No. Not happening.
I drag a hand down my face and lean back harder into the couch. The springs creak beneath me. Outside, rain taps softly against the apartment windows.
The room is quiet. Too quiet. Which is probably why the text alert nearly kills me. The custom tone explodes through the apartment.
I physically jerk. My laptop slides off my leg. Papers scatter. My heart immediately attempts to leave my body.
"What the hell—"
The phone. The phone is ringing. Not ringing. Alerting. My hand closes around it before my brain catches up.
One new message.
Maeve.
My pulse does something concerning.
The message opens.
Maeve:
Are you a guy?
I stare at the screen. Then blink. Then read it again.
Are.
You.
A guy.
Of all the things I expected to receive today, this wasn't even in the top hundred.
I lean back against the couch and stare at the ceiling.
"What?"
The question leaves out loud. To absolutely nobody. Because apparently that's where we're at now. The phone remains in my hand. The message remains on the screen. And somehow the longer I look at it, the funnier it becomes.
I don't know if that's a good sign. Eventually my thumbs move.
Me:
This may be the strangest question I've ever received.
The response comes almost immediately.
Maeve:
That wasn't an answer.
A smile pulls at my mouth before I can stop it. I type three different responses. Delete all of them. Type another. Delete that one too. Because apparently responding to hostage negotiators is easier than responding to Maeve Gallagher.
The realization is horrifying. Finally I settle on honesty. Or something close to it.
Me:
I once hacked into a satellite network because somebody told me I couldn't.
I stare at the message. Then send it. Immediately regret it.
"What does that even have to do with the question?"
The answer, unfortunately, is nothing. Absolutely nothing. Which means I'm now talking to myself and sending unrelated information to women.
Outstanding.
So like any sane person I send a second message.
Me:
Nobody involved asked if I was a man.
I drop my head back against the couch.
Somewhere in Chicago, Rachel just felt a disturbance in the force and doesn't know why.
Maeve's response appears before I've even set the phone down.
Maeve:
Are you avoiding the question?
I don't even think before answering.
Me:
Yes.
I stare at the message. Then immediately sit upright.
"Wait." My thumbs fly across the screen.
Me:
Wait.
No.
Too late.
The first message already delivered. I close my eyes. This is why I don't talk to people.
My phone vibrates again.
Maeve:
You are unbelievable.
I'm smiling again before I even notice.
Me:
I've been called worse. But the answer to your question is yes.
The texts fly back and forth like we are getting to know each other.
Wait…I absolutely do not want that.
Do I?
The apartment suddenly feels too quiet again. I stare at the message. Then at the laptop sitting on the coffee table. Then back at the message.
Absolutely not. That would be insane.
I last almost seven seconds. The laptop is open before I finish the thought. The Gallagher feeds flicker to life across the screen. I immediately find her. Not because I'm looking for her. Because my brain apparently knows exactly where she spends her mornings now.
Which is another thing I should probably discuss with a professional.
Maeve sits curled into a chair on the balcony with her coffee beside her. She's smiling. Actually smiling. The sight settles something restless inside my chest.
My phone vibrates again.
Maeve:
That answer took longer than I was expecting.
I huff out a laugh.
Me:
I'm choosing to believe that's because you're happy with the answer and not because you're interrogating me.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
Maeve:
I'm absolutely interrogating you.
A laugh escapes me. The sound feels strange in my empty apartment. My thumbs hover over the screen for a second before I type again.
Me:
How was your father?
The response takes longer this time. Long enough that I glance toward the camera feed. She's looking down at her phone. Not smiling now. Just staring. Thinking maybe? Finally she answers me.
Maeve:
Good.
A second message follows.
Maeve:
Too good.
My brow furrows. Then another text comes through.
Maeve:
It made leaving harder.
The words hit me unexpectedly hard. Because I understand exactly what she means. For a moment, I just stare at the screen. I want to make her happy again.
Me:
What was your favorite thing about growing up with him?
The answer comes faster. Like she doesn't have to think about it.
Maeve:
He always made me feel safe.
I swallow. Hard. The irony isn't lost on me. She continues before I can respond.
Maeve:
Not because he was powerful.
Because he always showed up.
The apartment suddenly feels very quiet. My gaze drifts toward the camera feed. Toward the woman sitting alone on a balcony. Waiting. Probably not even realizing she's doing it. My thumbs move before I can stop them.
Me:
What's your favorite memory?
I don't know why I ask. Maybe because I want to hear her talk about something that isn't Ronan. Maybe because I want to know who she was before all this. Maybe because I just want to know.
The response takes almost a full minute.
Maeve:
My dad taught me how to ride a motorcycle when I was twelve.
I blink. That wasn't the answer I expected. At all.
Maeve:
My mother was furious.
Despite myself, I laugh.
Me:
That seems reasonable.
Maeve:
I drove through a rose bush.
Now I'm grinning.
Me:
Also reasonable.
For several seconds, neither of us says anything. Then her next message appears.
Maeve:
What about you?
I stare at the screen. Immediately suspicious.
Me:
What about me?
Maeve:
Favorite childhood memory.
I lean my head back against the couch. The answer arrives instantly. I just don't particularly want to share it. Unfortunately, she's getting harder to ignore.
Finally, I type…
Me:
My first computer.
Three dots appear.
Maeve:
That's the most predictable answer imaginable.
I snort.
Me:
I figured you wanted honesty.
Maeve:
That's all I get?
A smile pulls at my mouth.
Me:
You asked for a memory.
Not an autobiography.
And for some reason, the thought of her rolling her eyes at her phone makes me smile even harder. Which is probably another problem.