Page 46 of Letting Go

Does everyone but me know about Mateus getting hired?

"What’s the deal with Raymond Clifton searching for someone?" I'm trying to break up the bromance.

Jackson motions us over to the executive table where his laptop glows sterile white.

"Look what I just found." He taps a key and two photos appear, police shots front and side of a young man who looks vaguely familiar.

"Brothers?" asks Mateus after thumbing through Raymond's file on the table.

"Hell yeah. Meet Reed Clifton."

And then I see it. The same jawline, the same bone structure. Different eyes. Raymond's were softer, compassionate. Reed's were ice blue and flinty. Cold. Then again, these shots were taken processing some arrest. There's also at least fifteen years between them.

"Do you think he's looking for him?"

Jackson, eager, impetuous, moved around the table and brings up a picture from a phone camera and then two more. "Hell yes. These are pages the guy left open on his computer."

They all had something to do with Reed Clifton, addresses, what looked like bank account numbers, photos of the guy—first out west and then someplace green, like a farm—and emails dating back to an ancient AOL account."

"You were busy," I said, leaning over, appraising it all. Clearly, Raymond was busy with his own intel.

"Why not just hire us? I mean that's what we do."

I know Jackson is going someplace with this. For him, everything is a story, and this smelled like a good one.

"I don't know," says Mateus. "Maybe he doesn't trust you because you take pictures of his computer screen when he's not looking." He slaps Jackson on the back.

"I'm being proactive." He turns to look at me. "Am my eval Nic said I have to be more proactive."

"What's that?" I point to a tab that's tucked under another on the desktop.

"Oh. You're not going to like it." Jackson moves the mouse and left clicks.

A picture of Chloe opens on the screen. My vision warps to a tunnel and she's all I can see. It's an old picture. Maybe taken during college, and she's smiling, laughing, her arm looped through another girl's. Both are in shorts and T-shirts. Chloe's holding a basket of lavender. Then I see they are in a garden. Tomatoes are planted in the center along with marigolds with lavender edging the plot.

My chest tightens.

"Woah! Is that Chloe? The girl I just met? I mean woman, now—girl, then." Mateus leans in further.

Shit.

"Are there more?" My mouth is dry.

"More?"

"Pictures of Chloe," I say, trying very hard not to shout. The go-bag, her fear, her need to be ready to flee. All because of this guy right in the other room? This Louisiana piece of shit? "So this guy is after Chloe?"

"We don't know that," says Jackson.

I'm glad this came from Jackson. If it was Mateus, I'd be pissed. He hasn't been in this game long enough to lob an opinion in my direction.

Jackson's phone beeps. He's got a text.

"He's dressed. We're ready to move," he says. A moment later he's put all speculation aside and replaced skepticism with a model of protective services protocols: Distance to the venue, size of the venue, size of the crowd, exit points, vantage points, liaison with building security, possible scenarios, location of a staging area. I had to admit he'd done a good job. He hands me a copy of the participant schedule, a flashy bifold piece of marketing, and his notes.

I take a photo of the bi-fold and hand it back to Jackson. "I'll question him myself after his keynote."

Jackson grins, slipping the schedule into his black suit jacket. "Oh, it's not a keynote. He opens the door with a flourish. "It's an 'Open Heart Talk.' At least according to the schedule." As I walk by him, he flicks the bottom of my phone with a finger and I nearly drop it. "Getting soft, man, read up."