24. Keaton （Skee）
Keaton (Skee)
The problem isn't the dress. The dress is objectively attractive. I'm capable of acknowledging objective facts. The problem isn't the hair either. Or the makeup. Or the way every man in the ballroom keeps looking at her. None of those things are the problem.
The problem is the smile.
I watch it happen in real time through the camera feed. One second she's standing in the doorway. The next, her mother looks up. And Maeve changes. Not physically. Something else. Something harder to explain.
The carefulness disappears. The tension I've spent weeks watching drains away. Then she smiles. And suddenly she looks younger. Lighter. Free.
The sight hits me somewhere directly behind my sternum.
Hard.
My hand stills on the mouse. The realization arrives immediately afterward.
Oh. Oh, that's bad.
I stare at the screen. Then at Maeve. Then back at the screen.
No. Absolutely not. The thought is ridiculous. Impossible. Statistically unlikely.
The smile remains. My stomach drops.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Because suddenly every weird thing I've been doing makes sense.
The coffee. The music. The texts. The constant need to know she's okay. The way seeing her smile improves my mood. The way seeing her sad ruins it.
The way I know exactly how she takes her coffee. The way I know which songs make her happy.
The way I—"No."
I close the laptop. Immediately stand. Grab my keys. Then leave.
*****
Twenty-five minutes later I'm standing in Matt and Rachel's kitchen.
Pacing.
The counting started somewhere around mile three. I haven't stopped since.
Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn.
The kitchen clock ticks softly overhead. Matt sits at the table. Watching. Patiently.
Which somehow makes everything worse.
Rachel moves around the kitchen making coffee.
Neither of them has interrupted me yet. Which means they're waiting for me to talk.
A tactical mistake.
Eventually Matt sighs. "You gonna tell me why you drove across Chicago at eight o'clock at night?"
"No."
Matt nods. "Good talk."
I keep pacing. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn.
"I have a problem."
"Clearly."
I point at him. "Not helping."
"Try explaining the problem."
I stop pacing. Then immediately start again. Because standing still somehow feels impossible.
"It's Gallagher."
Matt's expression changes immediately. Professional. Focused. The team leader.
"What about Gallagher?"
I drag both hands through my hair. Then immediately regret it. "Not Gallagher….His wife."
The silence afterward feels loud.
Matt leans back slightly. "Okay."
I point at him. Again. "Don't say it."
His eyebrow lifts. "I haven't said anything."
"You're thinking it."
Matt's gaze flickers to Rachel and back again. The traitor. "Keaton."
"No." I resume pacing. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn. "I can't like her."
The words finally leave. The room goes silent. Rachel pauses halfway through pouring coffee. Matt just watches me. “That doesn't appear to be a decision you still get to make.”
I gesture wildly. "She's married." Still nothing.
"Married." I emphasize the word. Strongly. Because apparently nobody else appreciates the significance.
Matt folds his arms. "Okay."
I stare at him. "That's your response?"
"What would you like my response to be?"
I open my mouth. Then close it. Because honestly I don't know.
"I'll take over the Gallagher case."
The words hit me like a punch. I stop pacing. "What?"
Matt shrugs. "You step back."
"No." The answer comes instantly. Too instantly.
Matt notices. Of course he does.
"You just told me you like her."
"I said I have a problem."
"Same thing."
"It's not the same thing."
Rachel walks over and sets a mug in front of Matt.
Then she leans down and kisses his forehead.
"I love you," Matt smiles immediately. The sight is disgusting. Then Rachel straightens. Looks directly at him. “But you're wrong."
The kitchen goes quiet. Matt sighs. Already knowing where this is going.
Rachel ignores him completely. Her attention fixes on me.
"Why do you think you like Maeve?"
I stare at her. Then laugh once. Disbelieving. "Seriously?"
"Very."
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Because apparently explaining this out loud is impossible.
Rachel waits. Matt waits.
Everybody in this family waits too much.
Finally I cave.
"She likes terrible action movies."
"Okay," Rachel says slowly.
I keep going. Because once it starts, it won't stop.
"She makes coffee too strong."
Matt's mouth twitches.
"She talks with her hands when she gets excited."
Rachel smiles. I keep going.
"She still worries about disappointing her parents even though they're proud of her."
The room goes quieter.
"She pretends she's fine when she isn't."
I stare at the floor. At the cabinets. Anywhere but them.
"She keeps trying to see the best in people."
The words come softer now. Harder.
"Even when they don't deserve it."
Nobody interrupts. Nobody moves. And that only makes it worse.
I exhale. Slowly.
Then finish with the one thing that's been bothering me most.
"She smiles like she forgot she was allowed to."
Silence. Complete silence. The kind that follows a gunshot.
Rachel slowly looks down at Matt.
Matt closes his eyes. Once.
Then rubs a hand over his face. "Well."
Rachel smiles. Small. Victorious. "I told you."
"I know."
"You were wrong."
"I know."
She looks entirely too pleased about this.
Then Matt turns toward me. The amusement disappears. The team leader returns.
"Show me everything."
My stomach drops. "What?"
"Everything you've got on Ronan Gallagher."
The words land heavily between us.
Matt's expression remains calm. Steady. Certain. Not joking. Not teasing. Serious.
"I want the accounts." He holds out a hand. "The surveillance." He ticks his fingers like he is making a list. "The reports."
My pulse starts climbing. Because suddenly this conversation isn't about me anymore.
It's about her.
Matt's gaze hardens. “If she's as isolated as you're describing, this isn't a marriage problem.”
Rachel goes still beside him.
“It's containment,” I say quietly.
Matt nods once. “And if the evidence confirms that, we start building a way to get her out.”
And for the first time since this entire mess started—the idea doesn't sound impossible.
It sounds inevitable.