Reid did not answer.
Deck’s mouth flattened.
“Let me save you some time, Calloway. Whatever noble, self-sacrificing speech you’re buildin’ in there, she’s already got one of her own. If the pair of you start takin’ turns martyrin’ yourselves, we’ll all be dead of old age before anyone gets a decent kiss out of it.”
Reid laughed then, sudden and short.
Deck pointed at him. “There. Good. You’re still alive.”
He dropped his hand.
“She loves you,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather.
The words hit hard. Reid had spent days trying not to say them that plainly, even in his own head.
Deck kept going, merciless.
“And unless I have badly misread you—which I haven’t—you love her right back.”
Reid looked away toward the courthouse steps rising pale in the distance.
After a moment, he said, “This town has opinions on everything.”
“This town’s not who I’m talkin’ about, now is it?”
“No,” Reid said quietly. “I suppose not.”
Deck nodded once, as though they had finally arrived at the part where honesty might be possible.
“She is scared,” he said. “And when Eleanor gets scared, she starts running.”
Reid let that sit.
It felt true enough to hurt.
“She thinks distance is protection,” he said.
“Aye.” Deck’s voice lost a little of its edge. “Always has.”
“And if I push?—”
Deck turned to look at him fully.
“Son, with respect, you are the district attorney. You know the difference between pushin’ and showin’ up.”
That landed.
Reid met his eyes.
Deck jerked his chin up the street.
“She went to Charleston to breathe. Fine. Good. Maybe she needed it.” His eyes narrowed. “But she came back.”
Reid’s chest tightened.
“Yes,” he said.
“So stop standin’ out here like you’re waitin’ on permission from the universe.”
