Page 22 of The Mood Board

As in moments like this. I was still learning how best to respond to Bailey in certain moods, just as she was with me—did she need me to be soft and gentle? Did she need to hear a hard truth? Did she need me simply to listen instead of spouting off ideas and trying to fix things? It wasn’t easy, and I had gotten it wrong probably more times than I had gotten it right. Our relationship was still in its early years, and as well as we fit together, Bailey and I still had to walk the path every other couple walked.

And because I hadn’t seen her in this mood for an extended period, and she wouldn’t talk to me about it, I was at a loss as to what to do. Part of me thought I should leave her alone to work through whatever it was. But the other half of me thought she might need help but didn’t know how to ask. Or that she could ask.

All I knew was that she was having a difficult time, and I wanted to be there for her. If only I could get her to open up so I knew what I could do, even if it was simply holding her while she figured it out.

“Bailey, please talk to me. I know I keep saying it, but I’m worried about you. I know we haven’t known each other for years, but this isn’t like you.”

My hand still around hers, I tugged. Bailey put her sketchpad and pencil aside and let me pull her closer until I could cup her cheek with my hand, my thumb brushing against her skin soothingly.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” I murmured, searching her face as though that would give me some clue.

Instead of answering, she leaned forward and buried her face in my chest, breathing against my shirt. When I circled her shoulders with my arms, she melted into me.

“We’re a team, aren’t we?” I asked. “We go through things together. We work through things together, no matter how difficult, right?”

That was the partnership we were trying to build, wasn’t it?

“I don’t like Janelle,” she finally admitted, so quietly I imagined she was half hoping the way my shirt muffled her voice I hadn’t heard her.

“You don’t like Janelle?”

Surprise blocked any thought for a moment, and I pulled away to look her in the face—Bailey didn’t like Janelle? I’d had no idea. Although, now that she mentioned it, and when I thought about it, she had been acting strange around the new CIO. It wasn’t anything I could put my finger on. She had done an excellent job hiding her feelings, but she hadn’t exactly been herself, either.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” Bailey said in a rush. “I wish I could tell you why, but she just rubs me the wrong way. I don’t even know why, and I’m sorry I feel this way. I’m trying not to, I really am. I know I’ll figure it out, and it won’t be a problem, but I feel really thrown off right now, and not myself, and I’m jealous, and I know it’s terrible, and I promise it’s not me—I’m not like this. I’m never like this. I’ll do better, I promise. Please don’t hate me.”

My eyebrows rose at the rush and tumble of words in a breathless, run-on sentence. I was quiet, but it was only because I was trying to tease out her words instead of trying to find a reply.

“Sweetheart, I could never hate you,” I said finally. “Just because you don’t like someone doesn’t change how I feel about you. We all have people we don’t like.”

“You don’t,” she shot back, then bit her lip, a slight flush on her cheeks at her accusatory tone. “You like everyone, like Scout.”

“Like Scout?” I asked, amused as she compared me to Tom’s young German shepherd, who hadn’t yet met someone who wasn’t an instant friend, whether they wanted to be or not.

Bailey nodded, the red on her cheeks growing.

“Oh, I’ve met a few people over the years I didn’t like.” My smile was self-aware. “Bailey, it’s okay to feel the way you do. But why, though?”

Bailey opened her mouth and took a breath to tell me, but whatever she was going to say was cut off by the doorbell, followed almost instantly by a sharp knock at the door.

We both looked toward the entryway, then at each other, mirroring confused expressions.

“Who could that be”—I glanced down at my watch—”this late in the evening?”

Shaking her head, Bailey suddenly looked concerned, and I could almost read her thoughts. Was this the anonymous letter writer finally calling to make good on their threat?

I handed Bailey’s phone to her as I slipped off the couch, wondering if I should call the police instead of answering the door. But it rang again, the knocking growing more insistent. “Stay here,” I ordered, padding from the room.

From the corner of my eye, as I crossed the living room, I saw Bailey ignore me and rise to follow, phone held tightly in her hand and ready to dial the police if it should come to it.

Except that it was the police at the door.

“Can I help you?” I asked, confused.

Several uniformed officers stood on the porch behind who I imagined was a detective in an SPD flak jacket, along with two more, a man and a woman, in dark blue flack jackets marked with bright yellow letters spelling out FBI. In the dark, beyond the brightness of the porch lights, I could see multiple cars, some police, and others unmarked but clearly official. This wasn’t a visit to tell me a family member had died.

“Liam Bradford?” the lead detective asked without preamble.

“I’m Liam Bradford,” I answered, my voice pitched with uncertainty.