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“Okay.” Standing up, he opens his mouth as if to say something else, but then nods once and leaves us behind at the table, shoving his hands in his pockets.
Max lets out a breath as soon as he leaves, dropping her unfinished sandwich onto her plate. “I doubt he’ll fucking do it.” She grimaces. “But I’m glad to know he hasn’t been friends with Cliff as long as Shane has. Maybe he hasn’t drunk so much of the Kool-Aid that he can’t still get out. But either way, I’m sure as hell not going to trust him without him proving that he’s really on my side first. I learned that from you, Sophie.”
I give her a small smile.
I genuinely hope for her sake that Aaron will manage to prove himself. But my history with the rest of the Saints has made me fucking doubtful.
18
A few days go by, and I can’t stop thinking about Reagan. As much as I?
??d like to write it off and tell myself that she deserved it for trying to kill me, I can’t just let it go like that. I can’t drop it, knowing that Alan is behind it all.
Sure, Reagan isn’t completely innocent, but she’s as much of a victim of that man as I am, whether she realizes it or not.
Maybe more so, in a way, since she can’t see it.
And it pisses me the fuck off.
From our short conversation in the dining hall, it’s clear that she knows more than we thought she did in the beginning. If only I could talk to her, convince her that Alan isn’t the man she thinks he is, maybe she would be able to help us and bring him down.
As fucked up as it is, Reagan is obsessed with Alan, maybe even in love with him, and she was obviously reluctant to betray him.
Which is why now might just be the best time to get in. I saw the pain and surprise and shock on her face when the cops came for her—it wasn’t a plan she was in on. She didn’t offer to sacrifice herself. Alan did it behind her back, and it hurt her. He fucked her over like the manipulative asshole he is.
And now, more than any time, her walls might just be down enough that she’ll see things for the way they really are.
“I want to go visit Reagan in jail,” I say one night as the guys and I sit around the table back at our place eating takeout. The table goes silent as three pairs of eyes turn to me in question, and I grimace. “She might talk now,” I say, telling them what I’ve been thinking. “She knows now that Alan isn’t her friend or whatever the fuck she thought he was, and maybe she’ll be able to help us.”
Gray sets down his fork. “I see your point,” he says slowly, “but are you sure it would work? That girl has about a dozen screws loose, and if she was willing to murder for him, who knows how deep her allegiance runs?”
“I felt like she was about to say something right before the cops came,” I argue. “Her walls were getting shaky before, and now, they might just crumble with the right push.”
“It’s not all that bad of a plan,” Elias says, but I still catch the hint of skepticism in his voice. “It might work.”
“Well, then.” Declan lets out a breath, his gaze catching mine. “Looks like we’re going to prison.”
On Saturday morning, the guys and I all head over to the South Hills Correctional Center. It’s on the far south side of town, and unlike everything else in Hawthorne, there’s nothing fancy or luxurious about it. It’s an imposing gray brick building, squat and wide with tall fences surrounding it.
We sign in as visitors, and once we’re checked for hidden weapons and shit, a guard leads us into the visitation room where Reagan already sits behind a glass partition, tan jumper hanging loosely on her frame, shoulders slightly slumped.
When she looks up at the four of us, my chest constricts a little. Her eyes are rimmed with dark circles, red and swollen, a clear sign that she’s only just stopped crying. Her skin and lips are pale, her appearance hollow and hurt. Confused. She doesn’t react negatively to the sight of us, but she doesn’t respond with anything at all, so I’m not really sure what to think.
I take the seat across from her. There are two guards on either side of the room, heavy-set men with buzz cuts and bored expressions.
I spare them a glance before picking up the receiver that will let me talk to Reagan. I’m honestly a little surprised she agreed to see us, and I feel like I need to get the conversation moving before she changes her mind.
“I’m sorry, Reagan,” I say, not really sure why I’m apologizing.
But the truth is, I am sorry. I haven’t forgotten that she tried to kidnap and kill me, and I don’t think I’ll ever really forgive her for that. But no woman should have to go through the mental and physical abuse she’s been through, no matter how shitty of a person they are. No one should be framed and imprisoned for crimes they didn’t commit.
“I know you didn’t have anything to do with the drugs or the money,” I say softly. “And I want to help you.”
She looks up abruptly, her dull eyes sparking with something.
“I didn’t do it,” she whispers hoarsely. “I’m not a drug dealer. I’ve tried to tell them, but they think it was me. They said they found my fingerprints, but I’ve never even touched drugs. Not even when Gemma and Caitlin—”
“I know,” I say, my voice gentle. She could be lying about that, but somehow, I don’t think she is. And I know without question that she’s not running a drug ring.
