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“Oh yeah.”
“She doesn’t know how sick he is, so she’ll try to meet up with him here and find out what he knows, then she’ll twist that information. She’ll say he got a copy of Terrance’s presentation somehow or that he came up with a similar idea all by himself and he knew exactly which social media influencers to send the shirt to since he’s an influencer, too.”
“She will,” I agreed. “She’s been laying the groundwork for that since the beginning, questioning how trustworthy he is.”
“She might even claim Reagan is trying to frame her.”
I nodded. “I thought of that.”
McGee finished the last of his sandwich and tugged his mask back into place. “So I’m guessing your legal people are gonna tell you to keep your cool and let them handle it?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Probably.”
“And you’re going to ignore them,” he concluded.
I pressed the back of Reagan’s hand to my cheek, simultaneously hoping he’d sleep and heal and wishing he’d wake up so I knew he was okay. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to keep him safe and happy.
“I’m going to ignore them,” I confirmed. That restless energy, that need to do something, was thrumming through my veins again. “And I’m going to bury her.”
If Layla tried to get in touch with Reagan, I’d be ready.
Chapter Twenty-One
Reagan
I woke to the sounds of beeping and raised voices nearby.
“Don’t take another step toward this room, Layla.” The man speaking sounded a lot like Thatcher, though I’d never heard Thatcher’s voice that cold and flat. It would have made me shiver if I hadn’t been surrounded by warm blankets.
“Thatcher? Goodness, you startled me. I didn’t expect… I mean, I thought you were heading for California.”
“Disappointed?” he asked.
“What? No! No, of course not. I’m always happy to see you. I just thought…” She cleared her throat. “When I heard from Alena that Reagan was ill, I immediately flew out here to take over at the event. Naturally, I stopped at Reagan’s hotel to check on him, and I was shocked when the manager directed me here. I imagined the poor kid sick and alone…”
“I’m sure you did,” Thatcher said in that same flat voice. “But Reagan’s not alone.”
“No, I see. It’s good that you’re here, as a friend of his father’s. But… actually, Thatcher, I did need to talk to you about something concerning Reagan?—”
“Let me guess: you’ve found proof that Reagan was behind the Nova Davidson incident.”
My eyes flew open. Wait, what?
“Well, yes,” Layla admitted sadly. “I didn’t want to believe him capable of it, and this is hardly the time to discuss it when he’s so ill, but?—”
“Save it. I already know the truth.” Now, Thatcher’s voice was a growl of pure venom—the sound of a man betrayed—and everything in me wanted to see him, to comfort him.
My eyes darted around the dimly lit hospital room, and I tried to sit up. Snatches of memories filtered through my foggy brain, and my head swam with the rush of information flooding back in. Thatcher carrying me through the freezing wind and into the busy emergency room. A friendly nurse helping me change into a hospital gown while Thatcher shot him a menacing glare. Murmured conversations between Thatcher and McGee, punctuated by the regular beep and hiss of medical equipment.
The flu. I’d finally caught the damned flu that had caused Layla to miss the road trip out West.
I heard the increased beep of the heart rate monitor before I felt the rush in my chest. Layla. Terrance’s notes. The Nova scandal. The lies.
And the realization she was even now trying to claim it was all my fault.
“Hey,” murmured a third voice, much closer to my bed. “Welcome back, princess. You scared us for a minute there, but it looks like you’ll be okay now. And I’m, like, ninety-eight percent sure Thatcher’s okay, too… but just in case, I’m keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t do anything illegal.”
I turned my head and found McGee, half-hidden behind the fabric curtain that screened my bed as he spied on the conversation taking place in the hallway.
