Page 18

“Look, I get you don’t want me here. I’m sure you have your feelings hurt because English chose me to be his medical proxy over you. But none of this is my fault, so you can stop punishing me for things that are beyond my control.”

“Your bag is upstairs in Gish’s apartment. Ben brought it after he dropped your car off at the garage. If there’s something else you need, tell me or one of the others.”

So many more questions swirled in her brain, but before she could voice them, Jackson jerked open a door beside the bar and stomped up a staircase, leaving her alone. Guessing they were the stairs leading to English’s apartment, she followed.

The stairs led to an open room that screamed bachelor pad. Scratched and worn wooden floors were streaked with dust, and the furniture was sparse. A wide recliner sat with a direct view of a big screen TV, but it leaned a little to the left and the cushions permanently dipped in the shape of the person who sat in it. A foldable TV tray was set up beside the recliner with an old cigar resting in an ashtray on top. A small kitchenette was on one side equipped with a refrigerator, two-burner stove and oven. It had limited cabinet space and counter space, which was eaten up by the presence of a coffee pot and toaster. On the other side was a king size bed with a fitted sheet stretched over the mattress, a blanket bunched up at the bottom, and a pillow at the head.

“Bathroom’s there.” Jackson pointed to a door across from the bed, and Reagan had to admit to herself she half-expected the bathroom to also be an open floor plan like the rest of the apartment.

“Your stuff’s by the door,” he added before dropping his frame to the recliner and pulling his phone from his jeans pocket.

Reagan rolled her eyes before snatching the duffel bag from the floor and carrying it over to the bed. Pulling out a toiletry bag and change of clothes, she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.

She fixated on her reflection in the mirror over the sink — or rather the simple piece of glass affixed to the wall without a frame or decorative border. The dark circles under her eyes matched her thick lashes and brought focus to the fatigue shadowing her dark eyes. Her skin was tinted with rosy splotches because she’d left without a stitch of makeup on her face, which also meant her high cheekbones and full lips were more pronounced without the contouring and coverage of concealer. Little tendrils of smooth ebony hair sprang out around her forehead and temple while the rest hung down her back in a tangled mess.

She’d left her home several hours ago, but it might as well have been days considering how mentally and physically exhausted she felt. She longed to talk with her mother and stepfather, to be reassured they were alright. Jackson had told her his brother said all was well with them, but she wanted to know for herself.

She rummaged through the toiletry bag and found a brush, chapstick, deodorant, a toothbrush and travel toothpaste she wanted. She guided the brush through the long strands until her hair fell in shiny waves over her shoulder. She brushed the strands up into her hand and secured them in a ponytail.

She changed from her tunic and leggings into jeans and a simple T-shirt. It felt good to be in something fresh which didn’t carry the antiseptic smell of a hospital.

Her final move was to run the cold water into the sink and splash the refreshing liquid on her face. As she dried her skin, she peered over the hand towel she used into the mirror. Instead of seeing her reflection, her mind transported her back. She felt like she was staring at six-year-old Reagan Barlowe with her perpetual loose ponytail and skinned knees. More tomboy than little girl, she had looked at her father with adoration.

English was larger than life in her innocent eyes. His hair had been dark and not the shocking white it was now. His eyes sparkled when they watched her, and she fancied they were actually more gold than hazel. He told her stories of adventures and excitement until she believed she would grow up to have those experiences herself. Hell, his stories may be the reason she wrote fiction today, but she refused to give him too much credit. Not when she had woken one cool morning, donned her jeans with holes in the knees and were too short on her lean frame, and went in search of English so they could go fishing.

But Traci was the only one there, her eyes bloodshot and watery, her lips quivering and her face splotchy from the tears she’d already shed. When she broke the news to her daughter than English had left, Reagan reacted in anger. She screamed at her mother, calling her a liar, saying she hated her. None of it was true, but her father was her hero and someone she wouldn't take her anger out on. Her mother beared the brunt of it as a result.

In the years since, her mother had always been there in her corner, and with each missed birthday and Christmas and softball game, Reagan’s regard for her father shattered until she wanted nothing to do with his memory.

But the memories were there, hovering in her psyche like a spirit haunting her. She never allowed herself to mourn the lost time because she convince herself English didn’t deserve her grief or her tears. He didn’t deserve a damn thing from her.

And yet the six-year-old inside of her felt the burden of the last twenty-four hours on her shoulders. Her father still thought of her. Her father still had a glimmer of good inside of him. But he was dying. If she had made the wrong choice, she would be the one to blame for killing him, and the past would forever choke her with regret.

The tears flowed. First only a drop or two slid down her cheeks. Then pools of salty tears flooded her eyes, and the sobs soon followed, wracking her body with a force she was unprepared for. She dropped to her knees, buried her face in her hands, and allowed the grief to escape. Her emotions spilled out in a prism of anger, sadness, longing, and remorse.

The tile was hard and cold, causing her knees to ache. Her head started to pound, and strands of her hair were dampened by her tears and clung to her skin like a web.

As she started to wonder how long the tears would run, a pounding on the bathroom door halted her sobs. She stared at the wooden rectangle wondering if someone was about to burst inside. Instead the deep voice screamed through the door with an urgency that had her raw emotions running to hide.

“Reagan! We need to move! Now!”

She pushed to her feet and rushed to the door. When she jerked it open, Jackson was no longer on the other side. She stepped out and saw him shoving items into a backpack.

“What’s wrong? Did the hospital call?”

“Grab your stuff. We’ve got to go.”

Something about his voice and the stiff way he held himself had Reagan moving first and saving her questions for later. She grabbed her things from the bathroom, shoved them back in the duffle, and zipped it as she hurried to the door where Jackson impatiently waited. With the pack hanging on his back, he swung open the door, and she was startled to see Luke standing at the other side.

“Front, alley and rooftop to the east. We’re surrounded,” he explained to Jackson, completely ignoring Reagan.

An icy chill crept down her spine. Those few words were enough for her to realize the person out to get her had found them.

“We should call the police. If these are the ones who attacked English, the cops need to arrest them. We can hide until they come.”

The men shot her a withering look which had Reagan clamping her lips tightly together.

“Ben?” Jackson barked out his absent brother’s name.