Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 138522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 554(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 693(@200wpm)___ 554(@250wpm)___ 462(@300wpm)
“You protected our sister at all costs. All I’m saying is that Carrie changed me and how I handle myself but I had to be willing. If you aren’t willing to change, then you need to walk away from Abbie.”
I look up to find Abbie standing in the hallway, staring at us.
Chapter fifty-eight
Gabe
Abbie stands there and says nothing. She just stares at me and Reid with those big green eyes of hers, red curls teasing the delicate features of her lovely face. She doesn’t question me or him. She doesn’t demand answers. She doesn’t turn and run and thank fuck for that. I need this woman. In every way, in every part of me, I need this woman.
I cross the foyer, close what has become the unbearable space between me and her, stopping in front of her, my hands settling on her waist. “I’m not walking away.”
Her hand settles on my arm, tiny, warm, her touch right in ways no woman ever has been. “Good to know,” she says. “Because I’m done hiding the monsters in the closet. If you can handle mine, I can handle yours.”
She won’t have to, I think. I won’t let that happen. I won’t put that shit on her. I drag her to me. “There are many things I want to say to you right now that are better said alone.” The door opens behind me and Carrie and Reid’s dog darts past us. My sister laughs and Reese’s voice follows.
Abbie laughs, too, and when she looks at me, there is a swell of emotion between us that says more than words and it’s not just about sex. We’re connected. We’re the real deal. I take her hand in mine and we greet Cat and Reese, with conversation veering toward Cat’s Cat Does Crime syndicated column.
“Wait,” Abbie says, as we all walk into the kitchen. “You’re Cat Does Crime? Of course you are. I just—you’re so involved in Reese’s work that I didn’t connect the dots. I love your column.”
The two chat about Cat covering Reese’s case in her particular editor voice and a few minutes later, the entire crew of Maxwells is sitting in the living room. Me and Abbie on the couch. Cat and Reese on an oversized chair to our left. My brother and Carrie on the chair across from us. Their adorable dog is at their feet, while the cat remains incognito. I actually miss Dexter right now. In a perfect world, I’d be home right now with my dog and my woman, and past all of this. But life and murder doesn’t happen that easily.
“The good news,” Reese says, loosening his navy striped tie, his jacket left behind in the kitchen. “I believe they’ve homed in on a suspect and if that were either of you, you’d be downtown right now. That being said, they aren’t backing off on official interviews and they’re being cryptic. They won’t say where they sit on any theory about the murder. We’re going into the interviews blind.”
“When?” Abbie asks.
“The day after tomorrow because that’s when I could make it work,” Reese says. “And that gives us tomorrow to do some prep. We aren’t back in court until noon tomorrow. I’d like to spend the morning with you both, prepping.”
“They wouldn’t interview us for no reason,” Abbie says. “I mean, the inside word from Walker was that this is an assassination. Anyone could have ordered it.”
“They’ll look at your phone, electronic communications, and bank records. They’ll ask us for them.” He looks between us. “Either of you have an issue with that?”
“I don’t,” I say, my hand closing down on Abbie’s leg. “Abbie?”
“I’m worried about that call I made to Jean Claude,” she says. “And the email we exchanged afterward.”
“We’ll tell them about it,” Reese says. “I’ll prep you on everything tomorrow at my office.”
“I’ll be there to help,” Cat offers, her hand on her pregnant belly.
“As will we,” Reid offers of himself and Carrie. “But you need to be prepared for us to drill the hell out of you. That way when it happens with the police, you’ll be ready.”
Abbie inhales and presses her hands to her face before dropping them. “I can’t believe he’s dead and I’m having to go through this. It’s like the hell that was this man will never end. He just reaches out of the grave and wraps his hand around my throat.”
“You need to try to relax,” Reese replies. “This may well be over when the interview is over. That’s always the goal.”
“What about the funeral?” she asks. “Should I go?”
Reese’s reply is rapid fire. “Would you go if it was a heart attack?”
Her brow furrows. “No, I don’t think—I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I’d probably fret over it.”
“Then fret about it,” Reese says, “and make the decision outside of the murder. Not going to a funeral doesn’t make you guilty of murder.”