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“Lemme see if I can get you some acetaminophen,” I said, then came back a moment later to give her two with her coffee.
While she was taking those, I reached for my phone, finding the right playlist of ‘Chill Taylor Swift songs’ and putting it on.
The sweet smile she shot me let me know it was the right thing to do, especially when that baby with a fever came into the office, screaming in the other room.
“Did they get him?” she asked three songs later.
“Yes,” I said, nodding. “He’s going to be going away for a long time. Drug charges, kidnapping, assault, attempted murder…”
“And Melissa?” she asked.
“An accessory to all of that, at least.”
“She has a son,” I heard her say. “I was in his bedroom.”
“I’m sure there’s family to take care of him,” I told her. “She has to go away too.”
“It was her idea,” she said, letting out a sighing breath. “To make it look like an accident or an overdose. It was her idea.”
All the more reason she had to go away.
“She was my pilates instructor,” she said, shaking her head. “How did I not know?”
“People are really good at putting on a front when they need to,” I said, shrugging. I knew plenty of criminals who went to parent-teacher meetings and Little League games. No one would know they were dealing drugs or working in extortion.
“I guess that’s true,” she said, leaning the side of her head into me. “It sounds like I’m going to be here a while. You don’t have to stay,” she said.
“Yes, I do.”
“You could—“
“Absolutely fucking not,” I cut her off. “I’m right where I need to be.”
There was a moment of silence before she sucked in a deep breath.
“Hey, Detroit?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“I was kind of brave today,” she said. “I was going to throw myself out of the window.”
“Of course you were brave,” I said, confused.
“I mean, I know that I’m not, like, you know, a weapon designer or from a mafia family, or a poison expert…”
“Where are we going with this?” I asked, suddenly a little concerned about her head injury.
“But, you know, I’m braver than I thought. And I know it’s not the same as being badasses like they are, but—“
“Why are you comparing yourself to them?” I asked.
“Because I know they are who outlaw biker guys are supposed to be with,” she said. “And I’m not that. But, I, ah… I kind of love you. And I was thinking maybe you—“
She kind of loved me?
Loved me?
Fuck.
