Chapter Fourteen #2
"We were—“ I started, only to be cut off.
"Reagan, princess, are you alright?"
She recoiled at that word. Princess. She hated it. Even if she was a sort of modern-day princess, raised into wealth and privilege, the whole world at her feet.
"Mr. McDermot,” Reagan greeted him, icicles dangling from her words.
"Michael, princess. Michael. I've been telling you to call me Michael since you were a little girl."
Okay then.
This was an unexpected layer of intrigue.
If he'd known her since she was a child, he was clearly a friend of her parents. But nothing in Michael's tone implied he was surprised or angry or upset by her presence. If anything, his greeting was warm and familiar. While Reagan went cold and stiff.
What the hell was going on here?
Clearly, there was more to this than I had realized.
"Reagan, is everything alright?" he asked, actual concern in his voice. For someone other than himself. Another layer I was having trouble stacking onto the others. "And you, what the fuck are you doing putting your hands on her?" he asked, turning his attention to me.
Yep.
And there was the asshole I was vaguely familiar with. His eyes were small. His tone was condescending. Not because I had grabbed her. Because someone the likes of me dared to put his hands on someone the likes of her.
Reagan was glancing between us, an unexpected guard down over her features, making it impossible for me to figure out what was going on in her head.
"Nixon is a... friend," Reagan surprised me by intervening, tone strong, almost firm.
"He didn’t appear to be acting very friendly," Michael countered.
"Well, no, but I can be rather unpleasant at times. So can he," she added a bit pointedly, giving me a look I was struggling to interpret.
"You’ve always been a good girl," Michael argued. There was something about that phrasing that creeped me out. But that was likely just me. "I would never call you unpleasant."
Reagan sidestepped all of this. "Nixon was just trying to stop me from rushing off angry. And he's right. It is never good to leave unfinished business, is it?" she asked. And there was something pointed in that wording, some deeper meaning lost on both Michael and me.
"No, of course not. It is always best to get it all out on the table," Michael agreed. "Are you sure you don't want me to stick around?"
"I promise you, I'm fine," she assured him, giving him the most forced smile I'd ever seen. "We are going to go get some coffee down the street and hash things out."
That, though, was pure honesty. If I was any judge. And I was. We were going to get some coffee. I wanted to get some answers. But I had a feeling Reagan had some other plan.
"If you’re sure..." Michael relented.
"I am," she assured him with another of those phony smiles.
"Tell your parents I would love to get together with them," he said. And Reagan went to stone.
Interesting.
"I will," she told him, but it was not even a halfway convincing lie.
"Nice seeing you again, princess," he said, then, clearly not one for reading signs, leaning forward, placing a hand on her arm, and pressing a kiss to her temple.
With that, Michael moved away.
We stood there, suspended in time, unmoving, she barely breathing, until he climbed into his car and drove around the corner.
"You're green," I told her when we were completely alone. "I mean, the fucker disgusts me too, but you’re really green." She had no reaction to this, her hand stroking up her arm over the spot where Michael had touched her. "Did you... do you want to go get that coffee?"
I had to admit, I wasn't great with emotional displays. And I was even worse at interpreting them unless tears or screaming were included.
The fact that I wanted to try to diffuse the feelings clearly coursing through Reagan was very telling since my general reaction was to run fast and far.
"I need to walk," she told me, turning, striding back the way we'd come.
Walk.
Okay.
I could walk.
“Hold up," I called a moment later, seeing a shiver rack her body. "You're cold. I have a sweatshirt in the trunk," I told her, bleeping the button, reaching inside to produce a black pullover with white pulls, handing it to her, watching as she slipped into it, disappeared a bit inside of it.
"Thank you," she told me, then turned and started walking at what seemed to be her signature break-neck pace.
"So, you know my client," I mused, tucking my hands into my front pockets.
"Obviously. People don't usually stake out those who they aren't at least acquainted with."
"Old family friend."
"Something like that."
"You don't like him."
“You could say that."
"I thought I was the one who wasn't talkative."
"I'm not in a talking mood."
"And here I was thinking we were supposed to hash shit out."
To that, she made some sort of noncommittal grunting sound.
"Like why you would stalk a guy you clearly hate. Like why he has no idea you are his stalker."
"Can you not right now?" she demanded, voice dangerously close to cracking.
I was typically the person who would poke at that soft spot until everything shattered. Especially when it came to a case. But I found myself backing off, walking in silence beside her as she got her thoughts in order, as she stitched herself back together.
We found ourselves standing on an ancient stone bridge over a slowly moving brook on the end of a backroad. Reagan finally stopped walking, resting her folded arms on the rail, looking down at the dark water.
"What do I need to do to not have you give my name to Michael as the one who has been following him?" she asked, refusing to look at me.
Her hand rose, tucking her hair behind her ear, giving me her profile. I was distracted by it for an embarrassingly long time before I remembered to give the question some thought.
"He's paying me, Reagan. He's the client."
"I can pay you more."
"But you're not the client."
"Do you think I'm dangerous?"
"I think all people can be dangerous. Depending on the situation."
"Look. I have reasons I can't have my name on a restraining order right now, okay? What do I need to do for you so that you can prevent that? At least for the time being?"
I could spend a lifetime considering what made me say the next phrase that came out of my mouth. I would still not be able to figure out what possessed me to say it.
But say it I did.
"You can pretend to be my date for a family gathering next Sunday."
There was a long pause as she turned to study me, lips parted, brows low.
"You want me to be your pretend date for a family gathering. Why?"
"Because there is going to be a rule about having to bring a date."
"And you would have so much trouble finding an actual one?” she asked, rolling her eyes.
"I'm not exactly Mr. Congeniality. It's not as easy as you would think."
"That is all it would take? I smile and charm your family while on your arm? That is all you want from me to keep my name out of the equation with Michael?”
"For now," I told her, not willing to give too much without getting something in return.
"Well, it gets me another week, I guess," she said, pushing off the rail, turning, making her way back the way we came.
When we were back to my car, she stopped.
"I guess we should probably exchange information then," she said, reaching to pull her phone out of her pocket, tapping away for a second.
"Number?" she asked, waiting for me to rattle it off.
I did the same, feeling oddly accomplished in having her contact information in my phone.
"You can text me the details. I will make sure my schedule is clear. And I guess you can come pick me up from work.”
"You work on Sundays?"
"Yes. We're in the middle of rebranding. We have all hands on deck, if they are free. If they have plans, of course, they can take off. And if they work, they get to pick another day to take off to make up for it. We try to be fair."
"Do you ever get a day off?"
"Well, I used to. Not so much anymore. But I honestly wouldn't get anything done if I were home on a Sunday anyway, so it feels better to get some work done instead.
Anyway, don't worry. I will make sure I pack something to change into that day, so I will fit in at your family dinner. Is it more casual or more dressy?"
"Typically, more dressy. Helen likes to see us in button-ups and slacks. Some kiss-asses wear full suits."
"So a nice dress of the flowing, not clinging variety, is in order. Can do. I will see you Sunday, Nixon."
I had a feeling I'd be seeing her before then. Parked in her car down the street from me.
Watching Michael.
A man who made her blood run cold.
I decided I had another case.
Pro-bono, if you will.
I was going to figure out why Reagan was stalking Michael McDermot.
Because I had a feeling he'd done something.
Something really fucking awful.
And Reagan was trying to make that right.
How, I had no idea.
But it was my mission to figure that out.
Before she got herself hurt or killed.