Page 38 of The Mood Board

I had so much to say to Bailey, so many sentiments I had practiced repeatedly because it was the only thing to do. But the situation was too bewildering. No matter how many times I had gone over everything in my head, and I’d had plenty of time to think since my arrest, none of this made any sense. Where had the FBI found anything illegal? Unless it was something buried so far under a mountain of paperwork my team hadn’t seen it—then or now—they had found something that didn’t exist.

And I so desperately needed Bailey to believe me. The look in her eyes the night she had received that letter still haunted me—one of betrayal, accusation, and pain. And that had only been one letter. How much worse would it be now that I had been arrested?

Along with too much time to think had been the question of what my arrest would mean to Bailey. Would she be there when I got out—if I got out? It was still an “alleged” crime until the case was settled one way or another. But I had still been arrested, which made me look guilty on the surface. She’d already spent too long with someone who lied to her constantly. Would she think the same of me?

In the darkest hours of the night, unable to sleep with the prison walls around me, I had tried not to imagine the worst possible outcome, that I would never get to see Bailey again. That she would decide I wasn’t worth it, or I was a liar, or any combination thereof that would have her running far away from me.

She was here now, at least. She had been in the courtroom yesterday. But what did that mean?

“Bailey, I swear to you—” I started again, wishing I could reach out and hold her hand, communicate my sincerity through touch, “I swear I didn’t do what they said. I promise you know me, the whole me, and I kept my promise never to lie to you again.”

“I know.” Her answer was immediate and sure, her gaze steady as she met mine. “I believe you, Liam. I know you didn’t do this. I know you, and I know you wouldn’t have.”

We fell silent, sitting across from each other, knowing our time was limited but unable to think of anything to say.

When I had asked Bailey to marry me, I had told her I wanted her by my side for it all—the good, the bad, the ugly, the health, and the sickness. And I had meant it. I knew what it was to be by someone through their worst times because I had watched my father care for my mother. I had watched them through the years of illness that no one could seem to diagnose, to sitting there with her through the worst diagnosis of all, to watching his wife grow weaker and weaker until she couldn’t hold on anymore.

My father had stayed by my mother’s side through it all, holding her hand, bathing her, helping her walk, holding her. He had been her strength when she had none, just as she had been for him before she had gotten sick.

I knew what it meant to promise you would be there for someone, and I didn’t need a ring and a certificate from the government to tell me when I could start. I would have been there for Bailey anyway, even before our engagement. But when I asked her to spend her life with me, that was a solemn promise that I would be there through it all, right by her side, holding her hand.

When I had been imagining “through it all,” however, I had seen illness, maybe loss, or business worries. I had never once, not even in my wildest imaginings, thought that meant one of us would be in jail waiting on a trial.

And yet, here I was sitting across from Bailey in handcuffs and an orange jumpsuit. I knew I looked like hell, though she hadn’t given any indication she minded or even saw it.

Not that she would.

“I’m really glad you’re here. I’m just grateful to see you. Hear your voice,” I said, feeling my throat thickening again. And I saw Bailey swallow her own emotion before she replied.

“I’m just happy to see you, too.” She swallowed again, and when she spoke, her voice was strained. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you. We’re doing everything we can to figure out what’s going on.”

“It’s not your job to figure it out—” I started.

“I’m not going to just go on with my life or sit back and relax while you’re facing these horrible charges.” Bailey cut me off, the intensity of her response pulling me up short. Her words had been sharp, angry, and forceful, her hands clenching into tight fists around the phone. “I’m not going to let you sit here. This is all bullshit, and we both know it. I’m not going to let you go to prison, Liam. I will move heaven and earth to show you’re innocent. I will do whatever it takes to get you out of here and home with me.”

I stared at Bailey through the glass, unable to speak. From the fire in her eyes and the fierceness of her expression, that hadn’t been an idle promise—or threat, depending on who you were in this debacle.

Emotion made my throat thick again, and I had to breathe deeply to control it.

How had I rated this woman, sitting across the bulletproof glass from me, promising to defend me with everything she had? I wasn’t sure what grand design had put us together, but at the moment, I felt like the luckiest man in the world.

It was corny and clichéd, but I put my hand against the window, and she did the same as I desperately wished I could somehow dissolve the glass between us just to feel the warmth of her hand against mine.

“I love you,” I said, the first time I had been able to say it out loud to her since the night I had been arrested. Since then, I had only said it in my head or mouthed it to her in the courtroom.

“I love you, too,” Bailey replied.

“I can’t wait until I’m out of here and can hold you.” My hand curled into an ineffectual fist against the glass.

Bailey shook her head, her angry huff echoing over the phone. “I can’t believe that judge didn’t give you bail. You! You don’t even have a parking ticket, and yet he thinks it’s not safe to let you out?”

“I guess he figured I was a flight risk,” I offered, my smile rueful.

The state’s attorney had agreed with my lawyer’s request for bail—even the state didn’t think I was a flight risk. But the judge had denied the request anyway, citing that he believed I was, cutting off my chance to go home to wait for a trial for a crime I didn’t commit.

“It just doesn’t make sense.” Bailey shook her head again, her forehead creasing with disdainful frustration. “Your lawyer was sure there would be no issue and you would be home by yesterday evening.”

He had told me the same during our pre-arraignment meeting. Not that I remembered much of what he had said—I had been so overwhelmed that most of it had gone in one ear and out the other. All I remembered was excitement that I could be out and home in a matter of hours. Then the horror and pain of hearing the judge’s bail denial, knowing I would have to return to jail until my trial. Which, my lawyer had explained without sugarcoating it, could be months from now.