Page 14 of Deception & Daylight (Oak Ridge #3)

Mags

? I hate it here - Taylor Swif t

“ Y ou come highly recommended, Miss Watson.” Private Detective extraordinaire, Patty McNeely — at least that’s what I’m calling her in my head — taps away at her keyboard, her long nails clickety clacking along the keys.

In reality, she’s a shrew. Patty is an older woman in her late sixties.

Her grey hair is pulled into a chic low bun, and she’s dressed head to toe in typical business attire.

The stark white walls of the local newspaper office contrast harshly with its warm, inviting exterior. It feels almost sterile in comparison to the red brick facade. It’s all one space with a few desks sparsely spread around the room, none of which appear to be occupied at present.

“You can call me Maggie, or Mags.”

Her expression is pinched as she briefly looks me up and down. “Sure. So it says here you graduated from the University of Toronto with a master’s degree in journalism last spring?”

“T hat’s right.”

“And what have you been doing since then?” I cringe at the question.

What have I been doing for the last year?

Writing smutty romance novels and avoiding the job waiting for me at dad’s magazine.

I can’t tell you how many times he called to tell me it’s time to put my degree to work.

But my heart’s not in it. I don’t want to be tied to his legacy, and merely the thought of being groomed to become the CEO makes my skin itch.

“Well, I’ve written some freelance pieces for a few publications. But after graduation, I really wanted to take some time away.” It’s a lousy cop-out of an excuse, but it’s the best I’ve got.

“It sounds like you might not be entirely committed to the field, Miss Watson.”

Even though she’s not entirely off base, her patronizing tone catches me off guard and my defiant side takes over.

“That’s a bit presumptuous of you, Patty .

” I spit her name like a curse and I swear she flinches.

“I don’t know what credentials you have, but a master’s degree comes with years of study and it is actually quite daunting.

I took a break and now I’m back. It’s that simple. ”

She eyes me warily before handing me a stack of paperwork. “Read through this. You’ll be required to provide your own laptop. The job is yours on a trial basis until we can find someone more permanent to fill the position.” Fine by me. I’ve never been permanent.

After filling out the onboarding paperwork, I exit onto main street.

It’s a beautiful day and the walk back to the inn is short.

The scent of fresh blooms dances on the breeze as I stroll past the playground, spotting two familiar figures near the swing set.

A beaming 9-year-old Aiden, his fiery red hair so like his dad’s, waves at me from his spot atop the slide causing Liam to follow his gaze.

“Hey Mags,” he says with a nod in my direction.

With a curt wave, I carry on down the street.

While my concealer did a decent job of hiding most of the remaining bruises, I have little doubt the gossip mill has been churning and I’m not ready to face the pitying stares.

When I arrive at the inn, I return to my room and pull open my laptop to twelve new emails.

One is from my cover art designer and the rest are from my editor.

My release date is looming, and I still have another round of revisions to complete.

I haven’t checked in with Victoria since the incident, and her emails grow increasingly concerned as I read through one after the other.

If you’re still alive, it would be super fucking cool if you’d respond to my emails.

-Victoria

P.S. I apologize to the universe if you are, in fact, dead. RIP.

I tap out a few replies, approving the cover art and letting Victoria know I’ll get to the latest edits this week.

As confirmation that I am still breathing, I send her a voice chat explaining that I’m in Oak Ridge for the foreseeable future.

Even though she and I have grown close over the last eight months, I don’t bring up the assault.

I can’t face the inevitable questions that would follow.

Diving into my manuscript seems like the perfect way to escape reality, so I open up my latest draft and review the changes.

I chuckle as I read through some of her suggestions.

Victoria’s a genius and most of her advice is invaluable, but she also likes to leave hilarious commentary in the margins.

When I get to the part where we discussed adding a sex scene, I freeze.

Normally this would come easily, but something feels off.

My mind is sudd enly a blank canvas, every thought just out of reach.

Frustration builds as I reach for the words, a heavy silence descending where the words should flow.

With a resigned sigh, I slam my laptop shut and strip off my clothes, hoping a little self-care might stoke some inspiration for the necessary scene.

The minute the shirt leaves my body, the bruises come into focus in the antique mirror above the vanity and I dissolve into tears.

For the first time since the attack, violent sobs rack my body and I let them.

I let the emotions take over until I can’t feel anymore. Until all that’s left is emptiness.

It’s late afternoon by the time I resurface from the room, my footsteps leading me down to the kitchen where I fix myself a cup of tea and head outside to the porch with my notebook and pen in hand.

A change of scenery and even a new writing method can sometimes help me with my writer's block, but even that might not be enough this time.

Uncertainty niggles at the back of my mind as I put pen to paper, trying to coax my thoughts into something coherent.

With each stroke of my pen, I lose all sense of time.

Everything feels inadequate, forced — like the suffocating weight of the last two weeks is bearing down on me.

The floor is littered with little crumpled pieces of my failures, each one a reminder of how far I am from where I want to be.

Something feels broken inside me — a disconnect that’s hard to articulate.

I’m searching for intimacy in my writing, but it feels impossible.

Like a tide pulling me under, flashes of the hours after the attack come into focus, more vivid than ever before.

The hospital gown, the hushed voices of the nurses and police discussing evidence collection, as if I’m no longer even human — just an amalgamation of the evidence left behind.

They speak in clinical terms, labeling me with words that feel foreign and cold.

It’s as if my entire world has been turned upside down.

I don’t remember.

Can’t fucking remember.

They keep asking what he looked like, if I heard his voice, but inside I’m a blank canvas. Reduced to nothing as I try to conjure up answers to their questions.

I can’t breathe.

Losing my grip, the tea falls to the ground, the delicate floral mug shattering to pieces on the porch.

“Maggie? Oh my god, Mags!” A soft voice echoes around me, but I can’t keep my mind focused on it.

“It’s Lucy. You’re ok, honey. Breathe for me.

” A hand makes soothing patterns along my back, gently coaxing me back to the present.

“Inhale,” she breathes in with me. “And exhale. That’s it, sweet girl.

Do it again for me.” We stay like that for several minutes, breathing together until the world comes back into focus.

An overwhelming rush of shame floods my senses as my eyes land on Lucy’s concerned face. “It’s okay, honey. You’re okay.”

“I — I don’t know what happened. One minute I was writing and the next… Oh god. Your mug. I’m so sorry.”

“This old thing? Fifty cents at a yard sale. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’m more worried about you. Are you alright?”

I shake my head, unable to speak. There’s sympathy in her eyes, but it’s not stifling as I’ve come to expect — there’s something else there, too.

Something knowing — a grief you would only understand if you, too, had been betrayed in the worst way.

A kindred spirit in the most devastating sense.

Without saying a word, she wraps me in a mot herly embrace.

I collapse into her arms, unable to contain the torrent of emotions as her warmth surrounds me.

“I feel drained,” I whisper, my body heavy and my mind foggy, like I could sleep for days and still wake up exhausted. In a moment of clarity, I pull myself together and step out of her embrace. I instantly miss the physical connection. “I’m sorry.” At best, the words are a garbled mess.

“Panic attacks can have that effect. Let’s get you to bed.”

“I should clean up first.”

“Absolutely not. You let me take care of it. Is there anything you need? Do you want to keep any of the papers?” I eye the disaster, feeling terrible for leaving it. “Don’t give it a second thought, sweet girl.”

“Ok,” I sigh. “No, I don't think there was anything worth saving.”

Was I worth saving?

“Maggie? It’s Lucy. Can I come in?”

I pull on one of the plush bath robes, its softness providing a fleeting moment of comfort as I wipe away the tears from my cheeks.

Quietly padding over to the entry, I inhale a shaky breath with my hand on the doorknob.

As the door creaks open, Lucy’s kind face comes into view.

Without saying a word, she steps into the room and wraps me in a hug.

“I just wanted to check on you. May I?” She gestures towards the sitting area near the floor to ceiling windows facing the lake.

“Sure.” I sink down into one of the plush armchairs, eyes fixed on the water crashing against the shoreline, steady and predictable.

Lucy takes her place ac ross from me, resting her hand on top of mine as she follows my line of sight.

We sit quietly for several minutes until her gentle voice fills the silence.