Reagan Michelson smoked her cigarette furiously on the corner of 14th and Alder.
It was cold and windy but luckily it had yet to rain, though a quick glance to the south proved a dark gray movement of weather was heading her way.
She looked over the high fence surrounding what would be a new prison, the same site that David Guerra had committed suicide on November 2nd, now two weeks ago.
Murder, Reagan thought.
There was only consequential evidence proving it to be a suicide. If Guerra hadn’t been a low income man, from Nowheresville, orphaned, and little family or friends, then the city might have put a little more interest into such things. But that’s what happens where you’re no-one from Nowheresville, nobody cares.
That’s why there were people like Reagan, the bulkhead to hold the city officials accountable for it’s citizens, an unpaid liaison between the what was written in the police reports and what was true. If anyone could uncover what happened to David Guerra, it would be her.
Reagan stubbed out the cigarette and stuffed it inside one of the perforated holes of a metal stop sign pole.
She checked her watch, a square faced analog Casio, a trinket her dad had given her long ago. It was 11:57 am.
Any moment now, Reagan thought.
She opened her phone and looked over the images once more. Jim O’Donnel was a sallow man, graying red hair was matted and disheveled, the skin around his neck looked as if it belonged to a person with a much longer neck and bunched in folds, the dark circles under his eyes told of sleepless nights, and the red tinge to his skin betrayed alcoholism. In short, he looked like an overworked piece of shit. But Reagan knew you couldn’t judge anyone by their looks alone, as she twirled a finger through one of her pigtails.
She knew from the reports, that Jim O’Donnel was the first was to find Guerra, at approximately 6:33 am on that Tuesday morning, and that’s why she was standing here in the freezing cold, outside of a noisy construction site where machines with angry arms ripped apart the earth while they growled and snorted black diesel fumes towards the sky.
It was criminal, Reagan thought, to tear up the earth and build cages for humans. Especially in this part of town. Low income also meant highest volume of crime, which meant they wouldn’t have far to go once they were incarcerated, but that was not why Reagan was here, she was here to find out what happened to David Guerra.
A tall, slender man fitting Jim O’Donnel’s description walked out of a man gate from the construction site, heading north. Most likely to one of the popular lunch spots up the street.
For Reagan to stop Jim, she would also be intruding on his lunch period which would immediately strike anger in the heart of any working man, she knew that and she was prepared.
Reagan quickly strode across 14th to Jim’s side of the street, a block north of him. She always turned heads, not because she was exceptionally beautiful, she wasn’t, it was the gauges, big square glasses, and bright pink hair, tightly bound pigtails. Reagan knew that this look wasn’t exactly conducive to being taken seriously, especially as journalist, practicing journalist, but she’d lost her ability to give a fuck a long time ago. When the judgmental glances from passing cars or pedestrians came, it did little to raise a hair on her neck, she never even noticed.
Reagan, otherwise, was dressed rather normally, boots, jeans, and a puffy jacket that fell mid thigh, revealing legs which were slender and shapely.
Jim walked along in Reagan’s direction, his distant gray eyes had yet to notice her, they were lost somewhere ten feet in front of his step, deep in thought.
‘Mr. O’Donnel?’ Reagan called in a singsong voice.
Jim looked up at her, startled.
At this range, Reagan immediately knew it was him. There was a fearful look in his eyes and what Reagan didn’t realize was that working men almost never were called ‘Mr.’, and the only people likely to address them as such were the police or the IRS or something like that. It also was rare that any woman would approach Jim, much less one so young, that in itself was a strange enough to knock him off center.
Jim didn’t speak as he continued his steady pace toward Reagan and it seemed as if he was going to pass her before he halted, once he pulled even with her along the sidewalk.
‘Mr. O’Donnel, I-‘ Reagan began.
‘Are you from the government or something?’ Jim interrupted. Eying her with suspicion, the folds of his eyelids came partial down, making him seem as if he was suddenly sleepy or squinting at something in the distance, but he was staring directly at Reagan.
‘Uh, no. I just wanted to ask you a few questions.’ She said.
But Jim was already walking away, he didn’t have time for surveys or political activists or any of the public servants who were protesting the construction of the jail.
A few days back, he’d found a black trash bag at the south entrance, giving him a slight panic, since he seemed to have acquired an acuity for making alarming discoveries in the early morning. The bag was filled to the brim with leaflets, protesting the contractor and damning the workers for building ’The Cage’. Jim spent the entire morning retrieving pieces of paper that were strewn around the site, along the sidewalks, and a pile at the vehicle entrance. Jim didn’t have time to read what they said but he wasn’t curious anyways. A jail had to be built somewhere and it just so happened that the county owned this property and planned, against the will of some of the community, to erect the facility right here in the open.
Jim worked for the man. It didn’t matter what he built, his job changed little from day to day and the only thing that concerned him was the steady flow of paychecks, not where they came from.
Now, there was this pink haired woman, who looked to Jim like a child in a grownup’s body, and she wanted to grille him on the ethics of it all. Well, damn her and her intentions, there was no way he was going to ruin his lunch on the account of some notepad toting, political activist.
‘Not interested.’ Jim mumbled as he walked on.
Reagan hesitated for a second before trotting after him.
When she pulled up alongside Jim, she began.
‘Look, I just had a few questions that would really help me solve-‘ Reagan began.
‘I don’t give a rat’s ass what your trying to do, missy. This is a free country, I have the right to refuse your propaganda bullshit.’ Jim spat the words out the side of his mouth, his brow furrowed, and the red in his neck turned a shade darker.
‘But that’s not what I’m here for-‘ Reagan said.
‘That’s what all you people say. Quite frankly, I don’t care. I’m just trying to work and provide for myself, if you don’t like it then take it up with the city, not me.’ Jim nearly shouted and sped up his pace.
Reagan’s face bunched in confusion. She expected Jim to be a sour character but she didn’t expect him to reject her entirely, especially because he believed her to be a political activists. Reagan had been at times of course, an activist, but that wasn’t her reason for being here and she mentally kicked herself for not anticipating this side of the scenario. Reagan hated it when she hadn’t properly thought through all of the ways an interviewee could react. It wasn’t a secret that the prison was one of the most thoroughly protested projects in the region, but Reagan had focused so much on what happened three weeks ago that she neglected what happened here every day.
‘I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the death of David Guerra.’ Reagan said, the melody in her voice was gone as she rushed her words, raising her pitch against the traffic.
Jim just kept walking, at a steady clip, two or three steps ahead of Reagan.
It was an ironic sight, to onlookers, as a disgruntled looking old man in reflective green clothes walked much too quickly away from a much shorter pink haired woman, who was nearly shouting as he sped away from her.
Reagan hoped those words would bring something to life in Jim, that he would swing around and beg her to ask him some questions about that fateful morning but he didn’t, he just kept on walking.
‘Look, Mr. O’Donnell, I’m not some political activist or whatever you think I am! I’m just trying to figure out what happened the morning of November 2nd!’ Reagan shouted, as the distance between them grew.
There was still no reaction from Jim, it seemed as if the speedometer of his pace had ticked up as fast as it went, without running, and, unless Reagan started running herself, there was no way she would catch him, and what then, if she did?
Reagan had one last thing to try, though she never saw this as plausible when she parked her car a half hour ago, and it seemed as if it would be the last opportunity before she would be forced to give up. Jim might be the kind of man to report her for harassment and Reagan wanted anything other than to turn up on the radar of law enforcement but you took your chances when it was the difference between justice and letting a murderer roam free.
Reagan flipped open her small notepad while she quickened her step, until she landed on the page she needed, she’d read the lines enough time to say them in her sleep but the sudden change in events had brought her wits to a screeching halt, and she scanned the poem once more.
In an a baritone equivalent to her falsetto voice, she read the lines out loud.
‘Lonely are the nights. Lonely are the days. Lonely am I, in so many ways. Does that mean anything to you, Mr. O’Donnel?’ Reagan finished, she walked and read at the same time.
Reagan looked up from the notepad, nearly running into Jim, who’d stopped at some point while she had her eyes down on the poem.
They stood on Jefferson Street, buses and university traffic whirred by in the dismal gray, unaffected and ignorant to everything that was happening between Reagan and Jim.
Reagan watched, nervously, as Jim just stood still, as if he’d locked up or had a seizure while standing, but there was only a slight tremble in his hands, nothing more. The uncomfortable silence held the air between them.
Reagan stood decidedly out of arms reach, in case she’d aggravated Jim to violence, which she never put past an interviewee, there would be enough room to escape an unwanted advance. Jim didn’t appear provoked. His head was dipped slightly and his shoulders lost the backward pull they once had, when he pushed past her at first. It was like watching a man cave in on himself.
Did Jim O’Donnel have a hand in the death of David Guerra?
For a moment, the alarming thought brushed its way across Reagan’s mind, it was plausible since he was the first to discover the body, but she quickly discarded the notion because he had no motive and lived in a small suburban town much further south of the city, an hour drive without traffic. It could be that Reagan hadn’t discovered a motive yet, murder had its way of being complicated, but it was extremely unlikely. So, if it wasn’t guilt, then what?
Jim turned around slowly.
His eyes were bloodshot, as if he was pushing back tears, whether they were angry or sad tears was something Reagan had yet to decipher.
Jim’s eyes quickly moved to something behind her. Reagan didn’t like the alarm that sparked in Jim’s eyes, it made her uncomfortable, as if he was planning something, another reaction that Reagan hadn’t anticipated.
All at once, Jim’s eyes widened, and he lunged at her with a quickness which is conventionally reserved for a man twenty years younger. Reagan tried to jump out of the way, but it was too late, his grip was solidly around her, and he wrenched her sideways, away from the edge of the street.
A horn blasted in Reagan’s ear as something solid glanced off the back of her head, sending her vision to stars. She saw the faint blur of a snaking bus fly past her and through the intersection before things went dark.
When Reagan’s vision cleared, she was seated on the hood of a car, very near the spot she’d been hit. She looked up, feeling a bit sore but nothing else, to see Jim standing in front of her, his hands in his pockets and looking quite concerned. She blinked hard, making certain she was not lost in some dream.
‘Have I been out long?’ Reagan asked shakily.
Jim looked puzzled.
‘What do you mean?’ Jim asked.
‘Out, you know, knocked out. How long has it been?’ Reagan breathed. She brought a hand to the back of her head, expecting her fingers to grope through blood and when they only inspected a bump, her hand returning clean, she was mildly disappointed.
‘It’s been a minute or two since the bus. But you’ve been awake this whole time.’ Jim said, turning his face slightly and squinting at her. ‘Should take you to the hospital.’ He added.
‘No!’ Reagan defended a little too quickly. ‘I mean, no. I’m fine. I’m fine.’
Jim was a little stunned by the reaction, as if he’d suggested neutering to a puppy, but he recovered quickly, and his expression fell flat.
Reagan couldn’t afford any more medical bills, she couldn’t even afford the one’s she had, it was the bitch of no insurance when you lived in a country that gave you medical care before they snatched it away just when you needed it. When Reagan needed it, there wasn’t help waiting. The only thing that waited for her was a greedy little outstretched hand while treatment was withheld just out of reach in the other, because the right to live has a price, a high one, and they intended to exploit the pockets of the sick until they had nothing left to give.
Reagan thought briefly of the medical bills which sat on the top of the fridge at home, most of them with blocky red letters which read NOTICE, it was her mom’s home because, at twenty-five, Reagan still couldn’t afford to live on her own, not that she didn’t like living with her mom, it just wasn’t as glamorous as she would have wanted. But very little had turned out the way Reagan wanted.
That was the problem with a journalism and english major, the only people who paid for a person with an education like that was in fact the person who was naive enough to believe they could make money with such a degree, by way of student loans that seemed to grow with each passing year, rather than shrink. That was fine by Reagan, each day students sold their souls to careers they neither wanted nor believed in, and she had decided long ago not to join the herd which everyone sped to be a part of. Money meant little to Reagan. Except when people wanted to take it from her, which happened more often than not and usually in higher volume. Like medical bills.
‘Why did the bus just drive off?’ Reagan asked, rising from her seated position on the hood of a car that was neither her’s or Jim’s. She checked her hair in a nearby, storefront reflection, realized her hair was crooked, and she surreptitiously straightened it.
Jim raised an eyebrow. His face seemed rather agile, expressions jumped into place like trained acrobats, easily moving with sudden and fluid skill that Reagan wouldn’t have expected from a man who had a face that looked like a paper bag someone had crumpled then tried to smooth again, unsuccessfully.
‘Why would it stop?’ Jim asked.
‘Because it hit me!’ Reagan’s voice leapt an octave, sharpening the hit me part. ‘There should be some responsibility for that! Don’t you think?’ Reagan finished while rubbing the back of her head.
Jim laughed. It was a thick one, the kind you cringe and wait for the person to break out in a fit of coughs and feel very much relieved when they stop laughing before it happens.
‘Why are you laughing? Does this seem comical to you?’ Reagan nearly shouted, the shame she felt in the shadow of Jim’s laugh was worse than the dull ache in her skull.
Jim halted his laughing abruptly, which he struggled to retain, and looked away until he regained control. When he turned back, his face was unreadable even though his gray eyes were smiling.
‘The bus didn’t hit you, missy. The mirror was coming right for your head, because you walked right off the edge of the sidewalk – don’t you know walking and reading next to a busy street isn’t a good idea? Anyways, when I tried to get you out of the way and you jumped – well, you leapt backwards, right into that.’ Jim said, all in a drawling monotone which peaked in places of emphasis.
Jim pointed to what it was that had collided with the back of Reagan’s head, she followed his pointing hand, and her eyes landed on small, green tower at the edge of the sidewalk. It was a parking kiosk.
Reagan’s heart dropped a little, feeling more sheepish by the moment, and suddenly she wanted very much to be alone. It was one thing to be hit by a bus, a person could be angry about that and, even though it was her fault, one could place the blame beyond them self, but it was quite another thing to be so scared of the person that was trying to save you from yourself that you jumped fast enough in the direction of something as solid and immobile, as a parking kiosk, that you knocked yourself silly. Quite another thing entirely.
Reagan contemplated the kiosk for a moment longer, not feeling up to turning back to Jim or continuing their engagement or interview or accident or whatever it had turned out to be. But her embarrassment soon turned to anger, as it always did, and she still had a job to do.
Jim was still smiling comically, as if he expected her to find the whole thing as hilarious as he did, but when he saw the look in her eyes, his face drooped like a child who realized he’d not accurately gauged the way one would react to a prank.
‘Mr. O’Donnel’ Reagan forced her voice to a professional rigidity ‘Why did you stop when I read that poem to you?’ Reagan asked. She patted her pockets for her notepad and felt the heat of anxiety when she realized the pockets were empty. As if on cue, Jim extended a hand with the notepad and pen, Reagan’s notepad and pen, which had been hanging at his side this entire time, ever since he scooped it up after failing to save Reagan from herself.
‘Thank you.’ Reagan mumbled as she took her things.
Jim’s expression turned dark and placid, not leaving much for Reagan in the form of clues. He didn’t answer the question. Rather, he began breathing as if a weight was placed on his chest, sporadic exhales and inhales which shuddered, the way they do when someone is very cold. Jim’s hands seemed to find a new depth inside his pants pockets.
‘Are you alright, Mr. O’Donnel?’ Reagan queried, a concerned wrinkle broke the surface of her forehead.
Jim nodded, staring at something on the ground, as he had when Reagan first saw him, and pouted his lips, like he was munching on words and preparing to spit them out. Instead, the only the he spat was a large stream of brown liquid that splattered on the pavement angrily. Reagan, while holding back the urge to heave, silently wondered how anyone could hold so much saliva in their mouth.
‘Look, missy, it’s about half way through my lunch break, and even though this has been a pleasant, albeit surprising, experience, I’m hungry. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’ Jim said, readying himself to leave.
A light went off in Reagan’s head because, yes, of course, Jim was hungry and that’s what she’d anticipated, planned for, and executed, though little else of this interview has gone as she’d imagined.
‘That’s right, you are hungry!’ Reagan said, the tone of her voice was as if she had only just realized that someone could in fact be hungry, ever. And Jim looked at her as though maybe he should be scared but didn’t know why yet.
‘Come on, lunch is waiting for us.’ Reagan said, ushering Jim toward a burger and shake joint just off the main road. Jim was reluctant and held his place.
But after a bit of coaxing and finally, asking Jim if he was the kind of man who would allow a perfectly good meal to go to waste – he absolutely was not – only then did he agree to come along but he did not agree to answer any more of Reagan’s questions.
The restaurant had an open layout with a single counter to the side, where orders where placed, a larger than necessary television on the far wall, playing a Quentin Tarantino film, and high tables and stools arranged haphazardly throughout. Jim and Reagan sat at a table opposite of the counter and Reagan quickly made her way to the side which faced the television, as to eliminate the obvious distraction it would pose to her efforts.
Their food was ready when they arrived, in fact it was in danger of getting cold, because Reagan made certain they would have the food ready by noon, exactly.
It was 12:16 when they walked in the restaurant.
Jim ate quickly, as if he was angry at the meal for being outside of him. Reagan tried not to watch or listen for that matter, but failed at both, losing her appetite in the process, and when Jim had finished, Reagan’s meal was still mostly intact, whereupon she offered it to him, stating that she wasn’t hungry, which was true but had not been the case when they first arrived. Jim took her meal and before long, it vanished too.
After Jim wiped the grease from his lips and seemed satisfied, Reagan opened her mouth to speak and words nearly slipped out before Jim held up a palm to silence her.
He sipped loudly on the straw in his Coke, holding the palm to her the entire time, until there was nothing but the sound of sucking air echoing loudly from the paper cylinder, underneath a load of ice, until finally he set the cup and the hand down, and looked Reagan in the eye.
‘Thanks.’ Jim said laconically.
He burped, loudly. Then he looked at Reagan’s wrist, to the masculine square Casio, and checked the time. Reagan followed his eyes, the muscles inside he jaw flexed involuntarily, it was now 12:26. Jim’s lunch break was only a half hour.
‘Can you answer my question now?’ Reagan asked, slightly annoyed.
‘What question is that?’ Jim asked, even though he knew.
‘You stopped when I quoted the poem that was found on David Guerra’s body. Why?’ Reagan said.
‘It’s a sad one, the poem.’ Jim said looking away. ‘I didn’t realize what you were talking about until you said that, for all I knew Daniel Gooda’ – Reagan interrupted with a ‘David Guerra’ and enunciated the words slowly – ‘was some inmate at the old prison and that’s what you were asking me about. Protesters come by the job nearly every day, it’s nothing new.’ Jim said.
‘So, you were the first to find the body?’ Reagan asked.
‘That’s right. I started early that day because the footing trenches were flooded, power had been tampered with, and we needed them to be dry for a concrete pour that morning.’ Jim said, then continued quickly. ‘The police already asked me all this stuff, why are you asking me again?’
‘Because I believe it was a murder, not a suicide, like they labelled it.’ Reagan said with conviction.
‘Suicide?’ Jim said, surprised. It sure hadn’t looked like a suicide to him when he saw it but, then again, he was only a simply laborer and not an investigator.
‘Yes. Suicide.’ Reagan said.
‘Hmm. That’s strange.’ Jim said, as he played with the straw in his Coke.
‘How so?’ Reagan asked. She leaned across the table and lowered her voice, even though they were the only ones in the place except for the bored looking girl behind the register who tapped violently on the screen of her iPhone while chewing gum obnoxiously loud.
‘And who are you, exactly?’ Jim asked, his tone accusatory.
Reagan hated this question, but she was ready none the less. She grabbed the old badge that was no longer valid and displayed it for Jim to see, on the front was a picture of her, before the pink hair, and looking quite profession with the words ‘The Guardian’ emblazoned underneath her photograph. She worked for The Guardian for a few short months before coming ill and forced to give up her full time position at the news company, and her life in New York, something that struck her almost as tragic as the illness. HR forgot to retrieve her badge when she signed the papers of termination, which she’d done from a hospital bed, and it came in handy in situations like this, because it gave her validation, though a thin veneer, it was enough to handle people like Jim.
Jim scanned the badge over a couple times, the way bouncers looked at Reagan’s ID whenever she found herself at a club that needed a bouncer, which wasn’t often, and the reason for skepticism was warranted.
‘Back before I died my hair, they haven’t updated my photo yet.’ Reagan defended the image. It wasn’t just that, she looked healthier in the photo, her brunette hair fell in waves around a face full of color, and thats because she was healthier then.
Jim handed back the badge.
‘So, you’re a reporter?’ Jim said, an air of contempt in his voice but might have been curiosity, Reagan couldn’t tell.
‘Yes. And often time’s that leads me to dig up details that the city didn’t have time to grasp, because they have more important things to do than solve homicides.’ Reagan said flatly.
‘Is that so?’ Jim said to no one in particular.
‘Why did you say it was strange, that they’d called it a suicide?’ Reagan asked, leaning in again.
Jim shrunk back into his chair, gripping his chin with a hand that still had a bit of grease on the fingers, and thought for a second. It looked as if had mentally pressed ‘play’ on the memory from the morning of November 2nd and his eyes flicked in tiny movements from side to side as he watched.
Finally, he spoke again.
‘He was praying.’ Jim said.
‘He was what?’ Reagan, confused.
‘Praying, you know, hands together. Like this.’ Jim said, miming a person pressing their hands together in front of his chest.
‘I don’t understand, what does that have to do with-‘ Reagan began.
‘Zip ties. Have you ever tried to break one?’ Jim asked suddenly in an ominous tone.
‘Uh, no. Should I have?’ Reagan asked, confused.
‘They’re damn tough. The only way to get out of them is to cut them or slip something out of them, but nearly impossible to break.’ Jim said.
‘Okay. I don’t see why that’s important.’ Reagan said politely.
‘You should.’ Jim said.
‘Why?’ Reagan asked.
‘Because Daniel’s hand’s were zip tied together, like this.’ Jim pressed his palms together, connecting the forearms to touching and Reagan forgot to correct Jim on messing up David’s name this time. ‘There was one here around the palms and another around the wrists. The same zip ties were around his ankles and belt, it was what kept him from floating right to the top, I assumed.’ Jim said, but didn’t elaborate that it was the crime shows where he’d learned things like how dead bodies float.
Reagan began scratching notes on her flip open pad.
‘I’ll never forget the look on the kid’s face, he looked so scared. As if-‘ Jim trailed off for a second ‘As if his face was frozen in a scream just before it got out of his mouth.’ Jim shivered.
Jim glanced at Reagan’s watch, it was time, he hopped off the stool.
‘Where are you going?’ Reagan pleaded, looking startled.
‘Time to head back to work.’ Jim said, shakily. ‘Thanks for the lunch, missy.’ And he walked toward the door.
‘Wait!’ Reagan yelled at him as he left. She gathered her things in a fumbling hurry and sped after him.
When she shot out the door, stumbling a bit and nearly hitting a couple who walked arm in arm on the sidewalk, Jim was standing off to the side of the door, a cigarette slung from his lips and he tried fruitlessly to light the tip with trembling hands.
Reagan pulled a smoke and a lighter from her pocket. She held her flame up to Jim, who ignored her and tried a couple more times to light his own but eventually caved when his lighter wouldn’t spark and allowed Reagan to light it for him, thanking her with a quick nod. Reagan lit her own cigarette, and they both breathed in the filtered silence.
It was obvious that morning of David Guerra’s death had affected Jim dramatically, even though he did his best not to show it because something in his psyche told him it was wrong to feel that way, Reagan assumed. She decided to drop the matter for now, though she wanted nothing more than to keep asking questions, because it was obvious he would have no more of it.
Reagan pulled a card from her pocket, they were old ones from when she worked at The Guardian, but they still had the correct cell number, even though the rest of the information was completely useless.
‘Here, I’d like to ask you a few more questions about that morning, when you feel up to it. The cell number is the best way to reach me.’ Reagan said, stuffing the card in Jim’s hand.
Jim glanced at the card for a second, not sure what to say just yet but he knew one thing, it was time to get back to work before he was in deep shit with the boss. Jim pocketed the card.
‘Thanks again for lunch, missy.’ Jim said, turning away.
‘Reagan, please.’ Reagan said.
Jim stopped mid turn. ‘Alright, missy. Reagan, it is.’ This time he turned completely and trotted off back to work.
Reagan wasn’t hopeful that Jim would stop calling her missy and she was even less hopeful that he would call her out of his own accord, she would give it a week before she looked him up again.
Reagan started off in the opposite direction. She made a mental check list of the rest of the day ahead, which didn’t include much, and she wished the time would pass quickly to this evening, though she knew it wouldn’t, until she would see Jack. Her heart fluttered in the way it shouldn’t, because friends didn’t let their hearts flutter when they thought of one another, but she couldn’t help herself. She was only Jack’s friend because Jack showed no interest in taking it any further than that and it seemed as though it would always be that way, she’d been waiting three long years. But having Jack in her life, even though it wasn’t the way she wanted, was better than not having him in her life at all, though, at times, she wondered if even this was valid.
Reagan opened her phone and began a text to Jack, the way she always did when she found something new and exciting, but she quickly deleted the details about her conversation with Jim O’donnell, deciding to wait until tonight to share them, before she deleted the message entirely and stuffed her phone back in her pocket when the clouds above her opened up and rain fell in drenching sheets.
A chill washed over her as she hurried to her crappy old Nissan Sentra, hearing Jim say the words, Zip ties. Ever try to break one?