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“Reagan’s okay,” I said quickly. “He’s in the hospital being treated for flu with a side of pneumonia?—”
“Holy shit. Pneumonia?”
“He’s in good hands, JT,” I said, repeating what McGee had been telling me for hours. “He’s breathing okay now and sleeping peacefully. And I’m right here with him.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end before a very firm and relieved “Good.”
“He was, ah… not making a whole lot of sense for a little while there, thanks to the fever and the oxygen thing, but he kept insisting that I talk to you. Something about an email and Layla’s shirt? If that doesn’t make any sense to you either, he might have been dreaming?—”
“Oh, no,” JT assured me. “That was very real.”
He proceeded to tell me a story about Terrance—the former PennCo employee Reagan had found through Instagram—and some notes he’d made on a presentation slide deck. He also explained how Reagan, sick as he’d been this morning, had managed to trace those clues directly to the source of the Nova Davidson incident…
Layla, herself.
Two weeks ago, I wouldn’t have believed Layla capable of it. Even a few days ago, I might have tried to find another explanation. But after everything that had happened, it now seemed so obvious I couldn’t believe how blind I’d been.
“Reagan tried to warn me,” I murmured, my gaze tenderly tracing the clumps of messy sun-streaked hair that stuck straight up around his pale face in a strange sort of halo. “He’s smart, and he’s damn good at reading people. One of these days, I’ll listen.”
JT snorted. “You’re not the only one who’s underestimated him. I think it’s already started to dawn on my parents just how important Reagan was to Dad’s campaign—according to Patricia, everyone who’s anyone was asking why Rea wasn’t with them today, since everyone’s heard he was back in town, and Dad’s campaign manager had some pretty sharp words about him ‘letting Reagan slip through his fingers.’ Mother’s playing it off as Reagan being sent on a crucial mission for the Thatcher Pennington since I let everyone believe you were heading to Los Angeles with Brantleigh.”
“Perfect. Thank you for that. Eventually, I’d like to tell your parents where I’ve been, but—” It wasn’t entirely my call anymore, what I chose to share or hold back. I needed to see how Reagan wanted to play this.
“None of my business as long as Reagan’s okay with it,” JT said. “But you should know you might have some company in Madison soon, according to my mother.”
“Company? Your mother is coming?”
“Oh, no. Noooo. Mother doesn’t fully understand how serious Reagan’s condition is, and at this point, it’s probably better to wait and tell her after the fact. But Mother did mention that Layla packed her bags this afternoon and ordered the corporate jet to take her to Madison. She assumes Layla’s going to take Reagan’s place at whatever event he was supposed to attend because Reagan’s sick and Layla’s such a lovely woman,” he said, in a creditable impression of Patricia’s voice. “Mother, not known for her ability to read people.”
“Yeah, well. Layla fooled me, too,” I reminded him. “And now I’m wondering…”
It was entirely possible that Layla was coming to Madison because she’d heard Reagan was sick and wanted to take over his role at the event. She certainly wasn’t coming to see me since she thought I was headed to LA. But something about the timing just didn’t add up. What were the chances she was flying out here mere hours after Reagan started investigating her involvement in the Nova incident?
“I’ve got to go,” I told JT. “I’ll be in touch, though. And I promise…” I grabbed the hand of the man I’d fallen stupidly and wholeheartedly in love with and said the words like a vow. “I’ll take care of your brother.”
“I believe you,” JT said. “And thanks.”
As soon as we ended the call, I dialed January.
“How’s Reagan?” she answered.
“He’s better. Resting. But we do have a situation, and I’m going to need you to call Legal…”
By the time I finished strategizing with her, McGee had returned with takeout containers of food from the cafeteria, so while he ate, I sat on the side of the bed and filled him in.
McGee scowled around a mouthful of cafeteria french fries. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Why’d the kid ask his brother for help? Why not come directly to you?”
I toyed with Reagan’s long, slender fingers, careful not to disturb his IV. “Because he tried to tell me before, and I wouldn’t listen,” I admitted. “Our last night on the bus, he said he’d contacted Terrance and heard some concerning stuff about Layla. But I’d already been angry at Layla for the way she’d treated Reagan that day, and it had been really fucking hard to remember that I needed to address her behavior as her boss—through proper channels, in a formal meeting with HR—rather than lashing out like an overprotective boyfriend and telling her to back off. I told myself that listening to Reagan’s gossip was inappropriate and that I needed to draw clear lines about what was acceptable if I wanted to keep seeing him while he worked for PennCo.” I lifted his hand and pressed a masked kiss to his knuckles. “I was an idiot.”
“You really were,” McGee agreed way too cheerfully. “I mean, where does flying across the country and carrying Reagan bodily out of his hotel room fit in those lines?”
“It doesn’t,” I said firmly. I met McGee’s eyes from across the room. “I forgot that I’m the head of the damn company. I draw the lines.”
McGee grinned fiercely around his sandwich. “Hell yeah, you do. But man, I still can’t believe the brass ovaries on her. I mean, I knew she was conniving as fuck—always running around trying to impress you, always so touchy-feely and ‘I live to please you, Thatcher,’ and whatever—but this? Trying to act like she’s a fucking hero, saving the day with this bus tour, when she was the one who caused the problem in the first place? Trying to throw Reagan under the bus so no one would suspect her? That’s some evil villain energy right there. She was your friend, your trusted veep, the fucking Queen of PennCo, and she risked it all for what? A chance to stroke her ego and show you she was a superstar?”
“I don’t know why.” I squeezed Reagan’s hand tighter. “But I’m going to find out.”
McGee bit into his sandwich like he was tearing someone’s head off and shook his head as he chewed. “If she thinks Reagan might suspect her, she’s gonna try to blame him again. You know she will.”
