Chapter 28
Monday Morning
Reid Calloway knotted his tie with a care that bordered on ridiculous, even by his own standards.
He’d tied thousands of Windsor knots in his life—half-asleep, one-handed, in the dark. This morning, he’d already redone it twice.
The bathroom mirror threw his reflection back at him: white dress shirt, navy tie, dark suit pants waiting on the bed. District attorney, Jackson County. Same as every Monday.
Except he couldn’t quite wipe the stupid grin off his face.
He tugged the knot up, smoothing it with his thumb.
“Get it together, Calloway,” he muttered.
Didn’t help.
His mind kept skipping back over the last couple of days.
Eleanor Harper on his porch Friday night, hair mussed from the wind, eyes still bright with anger and adrenaline.
Eleanor in his kitchen Saturday morning, bare legs and his shirt and coffee she’d somehow made better than his own.
She had left at noon.
He’d texted her later that evening—once.
Made it home?
Her reply had come back a minute later.
Yes. No microphones on the porch. You?
Still alive, he’d typed. No camera crews. Mildly disappointed.
She’d sent back a single eye-roll emoji and a small, quiet:
Good night, Reid.
He’d stared at that for longer than any three words warranted, thumb hovering over her name, every instinct wanting to call. To hear her voice. To ask if she was okay with all of this. With him.
In the end, he’d set the phone face down on the nightstand and left it there.
She didn’t need him crowding her.
Didn’t mean he hadn’t lain awake for a while, replaying the way she’d looked at him right before she’d said, That’s why I came.
He slid his tie into place now and stepped back from the mirror.
He’d dated. People thought of him as a ladies’ man—he’d let that reputation do some work for him in the courtroom when it suited the narrative. Charming. Unflappable. Not inclined to stick.
The truth was less interesting.
He was a one-woman man by nature.
He hadn’t met the woman he wanted to risk that on.
Not until Eleanor Harper had walked into Jackson County with her sharp mind, her stubborn spine, and the kind of laugh that made him forget there was a line he probably shouldn’t cross.
He shrugged into his suit jacket, grabbed his briefcase, and headed for the front door.
The morning was clear and bright when he stepped outside, sun barely high enough to punch through the canopy of trees lining his street.
His car sat in the circular drive, English green gleaming in the early light. VERDICT winked from the plate, a private joke he’d never minded owning.
He hit the fob, dropped the briefcase in the passenger seat, and lowered the top.
Might as well lean into the stereotype.
The engine purred to life, smooth and familiar, and he pulled out onto the street feeling ten years younger than he was.
He told himself it was the weather.
It wasn’t even close.
He was… happy.
Not the satisfied, I-won-a-motion kind of happy. Something looser. Lighter. The kind that sat under his ribs and made the world look a notch sharper.
He turned onto Main, letting the morning air rake through his hair. The storefronts slid by—coffee shop, hardware store, the podcasts’ new favorite diner—Sylva waking up slowly around him.
Traffic was light. A few trucks, a school bus up ahead, an older couple out walking their dog.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder.
Reid glanced down at the screen.
Burke.
He tapped his Bluetooth.
“Morning, Sheriff,” he said. “You’re up early even for you.”
Burke’s voice came through the speakers, steady as ever.
“Morning. You driving?”
“Hands-free and halo polished,” Reid said, though the words felt like a lie. After Saturday night, his halo wasn't crooked; it was probably lying on the floor of his bedroom. “What’s up?”
There was a brief pause, the kind that always made his prosecutor’s brain sharpen.
“We’re reopening Caroline Simms,” Burke said.
Just like that.
No preamble. No soft landing.
Reid’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel.
The easy hum in his chest dropped, replaced by a low, cold weight.
“Officially?” he asked.
“Paperwork goes in today,” Burke said. “Between the podcasts, the calls we’ve been getting, and some of the things Dad mentioned the other night… it’s time.”
Reid exhaled slowly through his nose, eyes on the road.
“Okay,” Reid said. “We’ll need a meeting with you, me, and whoever you’re putting on point. We’ll have to look at what charges were filed back then, what never made it into the record, what—”
“Reid.”
Burke’s voice cut gently through his train of thought.
“There’s more?”
“Yeah. Between us, we’re going to be looking hard at David Mercer.”
The Jag kept moving forward. Reid’s stomach did not.
“Mercer as in Caroline Simms’s David Mercer?” he asked.
“Mercer as in the guy who wanted that baby more than his next breath,” Burke said. “Podcasters found one of the old foremen from Mercer Development. Guy told them Mercer swore she’d never take Davie out of Sylva. Said she’d do it over his dead body—or hers. It’s out there now.”
Reid swallowed.
Eleanor’s voice slid uninvited into his mind.
I’m representing David Mercer.
Her eyes on the patio. The way her mouth had firmed when she’d said she was taking the case.
“Fantastic,” Reid said finally, the word flat. “So the man my office might need to treat as a murder suspect is the same man Eleanor Harper planted her flag on.”
“Yeah,” Burke said. “I figured you’d get there.”
A muscle jumped in Reid’s cheek.
“She know you’re reopening?” he asked.
“Not yet. I’m calling her after this.”
“Good,” Reid said, his prosecutor brain automatically clocking the procedural necessity. Then his heart caught up. “Actually, no. It’s a disaster. Forget I said good.”
The courthouse came into view ahead, brick and stone solid against the blue sky.
“She’s not going to like it,” Burke said.
“She’s a defense attorney,” Reid said. “She’s not supposed to like it.”
He turned into the lot, the Jag’s engine dropping to a purr as he eased into his usual space.
“But she’ll understand why,” he added, more to himself than to Burke. “She’d expect you to follow the evidence. Even if she hates where it points.”
Silence hummed on the line for a second.
“You okay?” Burke asked.
Reid let the question sit.
Was he okay?
He was walking into a week where he might have to stand up behind the state’s table and argue that the man Eleanor believed in had murdered Caroline Simms.
He was also still carrying the feel of her in his arms, the taste of her in his mouth, the echo of her saying I came because I wanted you.
“Define ‘okay,’” Reid said lightly.
Burke snorted once.
“Remember whose side you’re on in court,” he said. “The rest of it… you and Eleanor can sort out.”
Reid’s mouth tipped in a humorless half-smile.
“Trust me,” he said. “I’m very clear on which table is mine.”
“That’s all I needed to hear,” Burke said. “I’ll set up a meeting. You’ll have the file by noon.”
“Got it.”
The call clicked off.
Reid sat there a moment, engine idling, the courthouse steps reflected in the Jag’s windshield.
He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, and for a second, the smell of the leather seats and the morning exhaust was replaced by the scent of her.
Not perfume—just Eleanor. The smell of his own soap on her skin and the way her damp hair had felt against his shoulder when she’d finally drifted off.
He remembered the exact way her hand had curled into his chest, her fingers clutching his shirt as if she were afraid he’d pull away while she slept.
It hadn’t been a "Counselor" moment; it had been a "Reid" moment.
He opened his eyes, the brick and stone of the courthouse snapping back into focus.
The happy, floating feeling from earlier hadn’t vanished, exactly. It had been joined by something heavier. More complicated.
He drummed his fingers once on the steering wheel, then killed the engine.
“Great,” he muttered to himself. “You finally get the girl, and the universe hands you her client with a possible murder charge.”
He stepped out of the car, straightened his tie, and picked up his briefcase.
One foot in front of the other.
District attorney first.
Everything else—Eleanor, Davie, Caroline’s ghosts, the true crime sleuths breathing down their necks—would have to fight for second place.
At least for the next few hours.
He headed up the courthouse steps, the heavy stone columns casting long, cold shadows across the pavement.
The morning sun was bright on his back, but as he reached for the brass handle of the doors, the heat of the weekend felt a lifetime away.
District attorney first. Everything else would have to survive the cross-examination.