“Talk about what?”
“Whatever’s bothering you.”
“This case is bothering me.”
“That’s just it, Stiles. It’s not a case. Jordyn Sinclair isn’t our client. But that’s not what I’m asking you. For a few weeks, you actually seemed happy, like whatever cloud you were under had cleared.”
“What the fuck is this, Max?”
“Call it a colleague’s concern, since you don’t want friends.”
“What are you concerned about?”
“You. It’s a concept. When you’re around someone for a while, they start to matter. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I think it has to do with Ms. Sinclair.”
“What about her?”
“You tell me.”
“Does Ms. Sinclair have someone threatening her?”
“Seems she does.”
“Then that’s all you need to know.”
“You want to keep playing it that way, the lone wolf who doesn’t want or need anybody? That’s up to you. I just saw a good change in you earlier, but now the black cloud is back, and it’s even darker. I went through some rough shit with my divorce—shut out my friends and family. I stayed in that bleak place until I let them in to help me. Trying to pay that forward.” He stands. “But we can leave it all business if that’s what you want.”
I turn my head back to the computer.
I’m a fucking asshole. I push away everybody who tries to be good to me.
Just the sight of my childhood home feels like comfort. I needed to be here. I needed my mom to make it all better. She encases me in her arms and rubs my back. She makes me lunch, but I only eat the soup.
“I’m not that hungry right now.”
“That’s okay, baby girl. I know your heart is hurting.”
“More than I thought.”
“I don’t like to see you in pain. But it’s okay to let yourself feel, Jordie.”
“These feelings are beating me.”
“Why don’t you get some rest, and we can talk after.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
She all but carries me up to my old bedroom. It’s decorated the same as when I was in my teens. Trophies line the shelves, team spirit banners are pinned to the walls, and a poster of Luciana Aymar hangs above my dresser. Since Mom was expecting me, the bed was prepared with welcoming fresh sheets and my pink comforter. It may seem like an oddity in a room centered around soccer and field hockey, but I just happened to be a girl who loved sports and pink too.
I strip down to my bra and panties and climb in. Mom pulls the comforter up to my chin, tucking me in like I’m a kid again.
“Sleep, baby girl.” She kisses my forehead, then closes the door behind her.
I turn on my side and curl up into a ball, hugging my pillow. I don’t have any tears left. He’d taken them all.
At four o’clock, we meet Rashanda Simms—a self-declared Nancy Drew fanatic who goes giddy over Max’s PI badge.
“I love sleuth books and TV shows. Do you watch the newPerry Mason?” she asks.
