"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.