“I don’t know, I …” He fumbled for the right words. “I guess I didn’t think it was a possibility for me. I’m not sure I’m smart enough.”
“Are you kidding?” She stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. “Reed, you’re the smartest person I know. You can do whatever you want. I believe in you.”
For a second, he thought she was joking, but her gaze told him she wasn’t. Shedidbelieve in him. No woman in his life hadeverbelievedin him. Not his mom who’d thrown him away when he was just a kid. Not Aunt Beth, who thought he wouldn’t amount to anything and wanted him out of her house as soon as possible. Certainly none of his teachers, all of them women who looked at him with sour faces every time they handed him a C like an average life was exactly what he deserved.
Not Taylor, though. She’d never once stared at him like that. She’d only ever looked at him like she was looking at him now—holding his gaze in a way he knew she meant every word.
You can never trust them, Reed. They’ll betray you.
His father’s voice blew through his mind like a cold wind. He thought of the girl in third grade, Ashley Parker, who’d told on him for stealing the answer book. He thought of his mom and Aunt Beth and the woman in Texas who’d screamed for her husband to come outside and ruined Reed’s life. In a way, they all had—every single one of them. But not every woman could be that bad, could they? Wasn’t Taylor proof?
“Do you really mean that?” he asked.
She tilted her head, her eyebrows curling up like she couldn’t believe he was questioning her. “Of course, I do. Remember our deal? No lying.” Then she cupped his cheek and kissed him, and Reed decided to forget everything his father had ever said.
Chapter 29
BAILEY
A bell chimes as I breeze through the door of the Magnolia Café. The place is all black and white tile and kitschy art. There are posters of pastries on parade mounted on the wall, full of smiling pieces of toast and slices of pie marching with cartoon legs. An oversized set of forks, knives, and spoons hangs above the host stand, directly over a freckled hostess who’s smiling my way. “How many?”
“I’m meeting someone, actually,” I say as a bald man waves at me from a corner. “Thanks.”
Zane Jenson rises as I near, towering over me by at least a foot and a half. He has a wide nose and a prominent brow and is dressed in blue jeans and a charcoal blazer. He stares down at me with dark eyes, appraising me with a clinical sort of intelligence. I can feel him cataloging me, pulling open an empty file drawer in his mind and slotting me in. Paula’s voice fills my mind:He’s the best investigator I’ve ever met. He gets things done.I don’t know the man, but I can already see it.
“It’s Bailey, right?” he says, offering his hand. I take it and watch mine disappear in his as we shake. “You find the place okay? Google always sends people across the street.”
“I did. How’d you recognize me?”
“Lucky guess.” He sweeps his arm toward the booth. “Please.”
I slide into one side, and he settles into the other. I can’t help but take note of the accordion file resting on the table near the edge.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice,” I say.
“Don’t thank me. Thank Paula. I didn’t have much choice in the matter. As you may have guessed, when Paula Nash calls you answer.” A smile cuts across his broad jaw, and he chuckles. “You didn’t give me much choice, either.”
Exactly three days had passed since Ben and I walked out of Paula Nash’s house in a daze, and I’d spent every minute since thinking about Adrian Wallace. Before I left, Paula had pressed a business card into my hand with the wordsJenson Investigationsprinted on the thick white stock along with a phone number. I’d called it five times before he finally answered.
“Listen,” Zane says. “Before we begin, I want you to know how sorry I am for your loss. What happened to your family is tragic. I can’t imagine how difficult that must have been.”
The statement sparks a flash of irritation I have to mentally tamp down. I hate when conversations start this way. Since the wreck, it happens all the time—an inane condolence followed by some version of what Zane had just said. Something to the effect of “you poor thing,” or “they’re in a better place now,” or “time heals all wounds.” The worst ones are when people personalize my tragedy and tell me how they have kids, and losing them is their worst nightmare, like that will somehow help lessen my pain. It doesn’t. Someone telling me about everything they have only reminds me of everything I’ve lost.
“It’s why I’m here,” I say, inclining my head toward the file. “Is that him?”
“Yes—what I have, anyway.”
Before I can ask to see the file, a waitress in a short skirt appears next to the table, her fingernails and lips both matching shades of crimson. She smiles, sending a spray of cigarette lines shooting from the corners of her mouth.
“Coffee?” she asks, holding up a yellowed carafe.
“No, thank you,” I say. “Water’s fine.”
“Sure thing, I’ll bring a round for the table.” She turns to Zane. “How about you, hon?”
He shifts his mug toward her in answer. She fills it and then strides away in a cloud of peach perfume.
Zane takes a drink, and I consider how to start. I’ve only been around him for a few minutes, but he strikes me as the direct type. I stare at the file.
