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And then, of course, there had been Olivia and Marvin--the owners of the house where the party had taken place--with their irrefutable security footage that showed Michael red-handedly slipping something into the wineglass he handed off to Reagan.
His lawyer--wearing an Armani suit and Rolex that cost more than my car--had argued until he was red in the face, but not a single person in the room was swayed.
It was only the first in several civil cases against Michael.
And then the big one.
The one that involved a forty-something-year-old him and a girl who had been underage.
The statute of limitations was on their side. And after a string of lesser convictions, the judge and jury had nailed his ass to the wall.
He would get out.
Sexual criminals usually did.
Because our system was fucked.
But when he did, he'd be a lot older, and a fuckuva lot poorer.
It would never make up for what he had done to all those women and girls. And it would never bring Sammy back, but it was something.
It was some justice for the victims and their families.
But it wasn't the right time before all that was settled. Until it was the only important thing to have on our minds.
I'd been planning it for months, having secret meetings with the Mallick women and Krissy to try to figure out what the right kind of ring would be for her.
Simple.
That was the general consensus. And I had to agree. Reagan always went minimal with her jewelry. And almost nothing that stood out.
In the end, I went with a square-cut diamond on a plain gold band.
We all agreed--it was perfect.
Then I had made the plan, talked to some people, got them to agree to it.
She knew nothing about what we would be doing. Which led to a nearly thirty-minute-long tantrum about not knowing how to dress for it if she didn't know where we were going.
In the end, I grabbed her a red sundress because it was my favorite, threw her a pair of her flats, and dragged her with me to the car.
"You know," she said, eyes bright, smile sly, "I think you are taking this peach fetish of yours to an extreme," she declared, standing in the row between peach trees.
I'd rented out the orchard for the day.
It was stupidly expensive.
But we were allowed to take as many peaches as we wanted.
And we wouldn't be interrupted.
"Your peach habit is getting expensive," I told her with a smirk. "I figured we could save some money if we pick them ourselves. At least until our trees get big enough to produce decent fruit.
That had been my gift to her for not murdering me in my sleep for insisting we buy a money pit of a house. I had known Reagan was not a roll-up-her-sleeves and get to work on house renovations sort of person. But she had been there with me on weekends pulling weeds, spraying down wallpaper, refinishing floors. She didn't love it. But she was there.
I planted two peach trees in the backyard while she was at work one day as a thank you for seeing it through and not insisting we put it right back on the market even after it needed to be completely re-wired, had to have the windows replaced, and the siding redone.
"I hope you brought your pack-horse muscles," she declared, already taking one of the baskets the place provided, walking over toward a tree.
I watched her for a minute, humming that goddamn song about peaches and cream that she'd been singing the first time I realized I loved her.
Then I reached into my pocket.
And I got down on my knee behind her.
Waiting.
"Nixon, I need another bask--" she started, trailing off when she turned, when she looked down.
Her stunned gaze moved from my face to the ring and back.
"Yes!"
"I didn't ask you yet," I reminded her.
"I think the asking is implied. What with the knee and the ring and all. Do you have a speech prepared?" she asked. "Are you going to compare me to a summer's day? Oh, please tell me there is a poem."
"Listen, smartass," I cut her off, watching as her eyes crinkled she smiled so big.
"There's my guy," she teased.
"I'm trying to do something here," I reminded her.
"Right. Yes. Proceed," she told me, smile saucy.
Any words I had planned to say flew right the hell out of my head, leaving just the raw truth.
"I don't know why the fuck you decided to be with me," I admitted, pulling the ring out of the box as she fanned her fingers out toward me. "But I figure I better lock that shit down before you change your mind," I told her, slipping the ring onto her finger. "Marry me?"
She pulled me up, wrapping a hand around the back of my neck, pulling my lips down to hers.
