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“Why are you so worried about me?” he expounds. A flush rises to my cheeks.
“I didn’t say I was so worried about you,” I sputter defensively. “Just like a regular amount of worried.”
One of Jack’s eyebrows pops up. “Well okay then. Since you’re just a regular amount of worried it sounds like we can go with my original plan of waiting until after we talk to Cleo to discuss this.”
I huff out a breath, my brain going into thesaurus mode as it attempts to come up with every word possible to describe this man at this moment: frustrating, impossible, irritating beyond belief, intolerable, exasperating, infuriating, hot—wait! One of these words does not belong! Strike that last one from the record. I have a point to make and his hotness is unrelated and inconvenient!
“You know you don’t just get to hold the monopoly on caring for other people,” I inform him hotly. Oh geez there’s that word again…hot. Definitely not in reference to Jack this time because we are in a fight.
Only Jack doesn’t exactly look like he’s here to fight with me—even if the soft smile playing across his lips is quite disarming. I’m suddenly feeling wrong-footed. My hand goes to my hair, nervously playing with the ends as I wait for a verbal response.
“I think the neighborhood security guard took the picture of me,” he says calmly.
At first I don’t understand. I’m too busy attempting to process how his words fit into the fight we’re supposed to be having. Then the meaning of what he’s said finally hits me and my combative posture relaxes.
“Wait, we’re talking about the photos now?” I ask in confusion.
“Isn’t that what you wanted to do?” Jack asks in amusement.
My mouth is moving but someone must have turned my sound off because I can’t seem to make any noise, let alone form words.
“Nora,” Jack repeats his question slowly, “isn’t that what you wanted? To talk about the photos?”
“Y-yes,” I finally manage to stammer. “But you, you—” I break off as he cocks his head in question.
“I what?”
I narrow my gaze at him, one hand going to my hip, certain he is being difficult on purpose. And I would call him out on it, but I do seem to have somehow managed to get what I wanted. Plus, I’m super curious about his security guard theory.
I hold off for another couple of seconds, but then my curiosity wins out.
“What makes you think the neighborhood security guard took that photo of you?” I ask him, deliberately holding my head high to indicate that I may not know exactly what he’s up to with this whole giving-in-to-me-so-easily business—but I’m still onto him.
“Because I was talking in that photo,” he explains. “And looking out the window at somebody. We took your car through the Chick-fil-A drive through, so the only thing that makes sense is for the security guard to have taken it. Plus, it would also make sense for him to have my sweatshirt given that he’s the neighborhood security guard. Even if someone else found it, they would’ve turned it into him.”
I consider this. It does make sense except for—“How did the security guard know about any of this?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, raking a hand through his hair. “I haven’t figured that out yet. That’s why I want to talk to Cleo and maybe even to Frank if we can find him. Maybe one of them can help us get to the bottom of this.” He gives me a rueful grin. “Does that satisfy your scruples, Ms. Evans? Can we go in now?”
I’m disoriented by the way my stomach sinks at his use of my own last name, as if some part of me is actually disappointed to not be sharing one with him. So ridiculous.
“It’s Mrs. Evans now,” I inform him primly, hoping the salutation change will alleviate the pit in my abdomen. It does not. If anything the pit only grows. It was an olive pit, now it’s a peach pit. If I’m not careful soon it will be the size of an avocado pit. Basically the pit in my stomach is like those “This week your baby is the size of a_____” emails pregnant women get. That’s right. I’m growing a pit baby.
“Mrs. Evans then,” Jack corrects. He shifts uncomfortably in place and he swallows so hard I can’t miss the bob of his Adam’s apple. He seems to be fighting emotions of his own about this particular subject. The question is: Are the emotions positive or negative? Is he thinking, please take my last name or go ahead and keep your own? “Can we go in now?” he asks again.
I nod and Jack opens the door for me. As I step inside, I’m still half-dazed from our interaction, which is probably why at first I don’t notice the commotion happening over by the elevators. But then someone screams my name, and I whip around to see Stella next to a uniformed officer holding her by the elbow, her hands pulled together behind her back by a pair of handcuffs.
“Nora!” she repeats my name, her voice trembling with fear. “Nora! Please tell them I didn’t do this!”
Dread plunges through my body as I start toward her. No. No, no, no. Stella can’t be arrested for my crime!
“Nora, wait!” Jack pulls me back, his voice urgent in my ear.
“Jack,” I hiss, looking back at him, “let me go! I can’t just stand here and let her take the fall.” He doesn’t release his grip on me.
“I don’t think that’s what’s happening,” he replies– far too calmly, in my humble opinion. “That’s Detective Thorner. He’s from the narcotics division.”
“Oh.” I stop trying to free myself as his words sink in. “Narcotics,” I echo the word, then look back at Stella. What is this about?
