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Definitely my imagination. Jack gave up his feelings for me a long time ago and showing up on his doorstep with a dead body in tow definitely isn’t going to bring them back.
“No!” I exclaim. “Nothing like that. We were not romantically involved. Ian is my boss. Err, was my boss.” The change to past tense makes my stomach turn. “I had a flat tire leaving work,” I press on, “and he offered me a ride home.”
“And you accepted?” He’s incredulous. And it ruffles my feathers.
“It’s not like I knew he was going to try and assault me!” I cry. “He’s my boss and we had a relatively good working relationship.”
I’m not sure if he even heard this last part. On the word assault he stood up so quickly the chair beneath him crashed to the floor. He barely seems to notice, though, too busy pacing across the room, his posture tense.
I sit quietly, watching him. Waiting for a cue to move on with the story, annoyed at the tiny thrill I feel seeing his anger on display like this.
Anger on my account.
Do not find your brooding and protective ex-boyfriend attractive, Nora, I berate myself. After all, Jack is an honorable man who would feel angry on behalf of any woman who experienced what you did.
When he finally turns to face me once more his eyes are molten.
“I apologize,” he grits out, “both for my outburst and for any insinuation that what occurred was in any way your fault. You were a victim, plain and simple.” He draws in a haggard breath, then steps forward clutching the edge of the table tightly. “But know this, Nora. If you hadn’t killed him already, I’d be hunting him down to do it myself. Which means,” fire glints across his irises, oddly mesmerizing, “from now on, we’re in this thing together. Equally culpable.”
As soon as the words are out he pulls abruptly away from the table, running a hand over his face, then saying in a detached tone, “But we need to act fast. I assume your car is still at the office?”
I nod mutely, still reeling from his declaration. And frankly, shocked that he’s actually agreeing to help me. Jack Reynolds is nothing if not a rule follower. Once, when we were dating, we drove across the state to see a Michigan football game. I had to go to the bathroom, but the lines at the first gas station we stopped at were crazy long from all of the game traffic so he drove me over to a nearby grocery store. First he refused to drop me off at the curb near the entry because of a sign that said “No stopping, standing, parking” and then I came out of the restroom to find him in line purchasing a pack of gum. “Oh, I have some gum if you need it,” I told him, but he declined the offer explaining that he was only buying the gum because there’d been a sign posted on the entry door stating that restrooms were for paying customers only.
That’s Jack for you. Following even the most insignificant of rules.
And yet here he is plotting how to help me get away with murder.
The juxtaposition between these two versions of him is making my imagination work overtime as it concocts notions about suppressed romantic feelings for me being the driving force for his actions.
But I tell my imagination to shut up, then focus back on the task at hand.
“Yes,” I tell him, “my car is there.”
“Okay. And did anyone see you leave with—”
“Ian,” I supply and his lips sneer into a disgusted frown as he repeats the name back to me.
“Right. Ian. Did anyone see you leave together?”
“The only other person there,” I inform him, “was the night security guard Frank. I don’t know if he saw us or not. He usually walks the building at night, so it depends where he was in his rounds.”
I can tell Jack doesn’t like this information by the way his chin dips hard to his shoulder and his eyes close, but all he says is, “Okay.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “First thing we need to do is take a picture of your wrist. Right now that’s the only evidence we have that corroborates your story, and it could be gone in the next day or two.”
“Okay.” I nod and move my arm out from under the blanket, displaying the purple bruise there. Already it’s fading. One faint bruise certainly doesn’t seem like much in terms of proof.
Jack snaps pictures of it in silence, making sure to catch it from every angle.
“Alright,” he finally declares, “that’s enough. I’m sorry to have to make you do this on a night when you probably just want to go to sleep and forget the horror of the day, but we’re working against the clock.” As he speaks he looks at his watch, the table, his discarded mug—anywhere but at me. “First things first, we’ll need to get your car. We’ll take mine over there and get yours all fixed up, that way it’s gone in the morning and no one will have any questions about how you got home.”
“What about Frank?”
Jack doesn’t hesitate, clearly already having considered this detail. The sureness of his countenance comforts me. There’s someone else taking over my problem, and I am more than willing to let him lead.
“We’ll have to make sure he sees us out there taking care of your car. That way if he did see you get in Ian’s car he’ll assume you made it home without any problems. And if he didn’t see you, he’ll assume I came to help. And that will be that.”
“Yeah,” I say, “until Ian doesn’t show up for work tomorrow. Then what?”
Jack’s steel gray eyes finally look straight at me. “That’s why we’ve gotta get moving. After we take care of your car we’ve got a murder to stage.”
