Page 66 of The Fallen Man

“You know she will be asking Nika for your complete itinerary, right?” asked Katie.

“Yes, but Nika hates the Junior League and anyone associated with it. She also knows better than to give anyone my schedule. I think I’m safe.”

Katie smiled, but shook her head. “I really hate those kind of women. They bring every relationship down to a transactional level and I just… I hate being commoditized like that.”

“Some guys like that,” said Jackson. “It makes it easier to know where they stand.”

“No, it makes it easier to put themselves first. That’s all it is on either side. Negotiated and ranked narcissism. It never occurs to them to put someone else first and being kind is considered a weakness.”

Jackson had been so surprised that he kissed her instead of saying anything. He wasn’t sure he could have said anything, even if he’d known what he wanted to say. It was the kind of statement that came from experience and he was amazed that she was still managing kindness in spite of that experience.

Jackson looked at the fidget toy. Kindness. Katie had more of it than most. He was lucky that she was willing to share her time with him.

The door of Cheery Bailbonds banged open and Devonte struggled through with his bags, scarf wrapped around him up to the eyeballs. The weather had taken an unexpected cold turn. Something else Jackson was going to have to do something about. Katie didn’t appear to own a winter coat or decent boots. Maybe he could give them as a Christmas gift? They seemed like shift Christmas gifts, but she really needed them.

“Do you know how much I fucking hate JFK?” Devonte demanded, dropping his bag on the floor and slamming the door behind him.

“Considering the length of a cab ride between there and here and the fact that you’re still stewing about it… I’m going with a lot.”

“They lost my bag—twice.”

Devonte continued to rant while he hung up his coat and went into the kitchen.

“How do you lose a bag twice?” Jackson called after him.

“I don’t know but they managed it. I think I walked the entire length of that damn airport about eight times. It’s over here. No, it’s over there. It went to this terminal while I went to that terminal. At some point I think they just started fucking withme.”

Devonte emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee and dropped down into the desk chair at the desk next to Jackson’s. He took a sip of coffee and let out a deep sigh and slumped, thrusting his feet out.

“Glad to be home?” asked Jackson.

“I’m even happy to be drinking this shit coffee. Also, by the way, that is not what you do for horses.”

“No?” asked Jackson innocently.

Devonte gave him a look. “No.”

“I grew up in Chicago. What would I know about horses?”

“Why do I feel like you knew that before you said it though.”

Jackson shrugged and Devonte laughed.

“OK, you’ve got your coffee, we’ve heard about JFK. What’d you find? Please tell me you found something because we’re drawing blanks everywhere else.”

“Sorry,” said Devonte looking genuinely apologetic. “I waded through about eight phone booths of public records, two extra ex-husbands, and made a trip out to a cemetery. I’m sorry, but Christina Granger is dead.”

“Wait, what?”

“Yeah, breast cancer,” said Devonte, shaking his head. “Three years ago.”

“That’s impossible,” said Jackson.

“I saw the death certificate,” said Devonte. “And the headstone.”

“Then who the hell signed into the visitor log last year to visit Granger?”

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