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This was how it had to be if he was ever going to survive her leaving.
* * *
Despite a rocky morning when she’d left Reynolds’s office feeling like everything that had taken place between them over the past few days and weeks had never happened, Waverley had made it to the end of the day, exhausted and a little leery about what tomorrow might bring.
As Reynolds had warned, the phone lines had been ringing nonstop. The news stories that were being covered across all local networks and newspapers, along with a couple of cable news channels, were drumming up business from people who wanted to hire Reynolds for their own cases, not to mention a few reporters who were trying to get an interview with him. A couple of the reporters even asked if she knew how to locate Ms. Abbott, which made her grateful that they couldn’t see who they were talking to.
The sound of the bell jingling above the front door had her glancing up uneasily.
Dang. She’d forgotten to lock it.
For a moment she worried that it might be a reporter who, while here to to talk to Reynolds, might recognize her and barrage her with questions like they had when they stalked her months ago, making her life a living nightmare.
It took her a moment to recognize the brunette wearing black yoga pants, flip-flops, and a long, baggy T-shirt with a faded picture of Han Solo on it. Meg.
She sagged in relief. Of course it wasn’t a reporter. It wasn’t like she and Reynolds were celebrities or big heroes saving a city from a serial killer or anything. They’d just been a small part of Spencer’s criminal case.
“What are you doing right now?” Meg asked before Waverley could ask how she was doing. Waverley hadn’t seen Meg or any of the women since their trip into Denver a week ago, and her friendly smile was a welcome sight.
“I was about to head home.”
“Perfect. You’re free then.”
“Free for what?” she asked even as Meg came closer so she could inspect her.
“I think I have something that will work.” She patted the gym bag at her side.
“Work for what?” she tried again.
“If I tell you, you’ll just say no. Come on. Trust me. You’ll be glad you did.”
Waverley hesitated. Her only plan for the night was holing up in her apartment with Mouse curled on her lap while eating ice cream and streaming shows on her phone as she tried not to think about Reynolds.
Not exactly riveting stuff.
“Okay,” Waverley said finally. “But if it involves wet bikini contests or mud wrestling, I’m going to find and burn your store down by morning.”
“That seems fair.”
Waverley shut down her computer and pulled her bag from the drawer before looking behind her. Reynolds was still in there, as he had been all day. Two days ago—heck, even a week ago—she might have been tempted to open it enough to pop her head in and wave goodbye, but with his increasingly sour mood, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Instead she sent a quick text telling him she was taking off and would see him tomorrow. She took her time putting her phone in her purse and straightening up the top of her desk, giving Reynolds a moment to read her text and come out and say good night.
Nothing.
A flash of anger had her almost slamming his door open and demanding he talk to her, but it passed under Meg’s curious grin.
She smiled back and grabbed her stuff. “All set.”
Out on the sidewalk, Meg kept up the conversation, keeping things light as she relayed a horrible coffee date she’d had over the weekend with a guy she’d met on a dating app, something Waverley related to and shared her own stories.
She tried not to feel self-conscious as they walked or stare into every face they passed. When she first arrived in town, she’d enjoyed the anonymity of being just a regular face on the street, one unlikely to be recognized or connected to Spencer’s crimes and his escape. But with the renewed interest and airtime on the case again, she wondered if it was only a matter of time before people recognized her and turned angry and resentful glares her way.
But so far, it felt the same. There were easy smiles and hellos and nothing more.
They didn’t walk very long before Meg headed into a building that advertised a family therapy practice. “Things must be worse than I thought if you think I need to talk to a therapist,” she half joked.
“Not at all,” Meg said and led her through the lobby and down a hallway. “Although I wouldn’t blame you if you did after seeing all the crap you’ve been put through the past year. But what we’re going to do I guess some would say is a type of therapy.” She stopped in front of an open doorway, and Waverley peered inside, finding a dozen women rolling out or sitting on yoga mats, chatting away.
