Page 170 of Fearless

She checked her phone, where it rested on her thigh beneath the table, in an effort to distract herself from the crushing nausea.

One text message from Ronnie:Can we talk? Call me.

No, she wanted to type back.No we can’t. You insulted me in every way possible, and I don’t want to talk to you ever, about anything.

She clicked the screen to black and forced her head up, stomach rolling. She just wouldn’t respond, she decided. What would she tell him anyway? That she’d spent an entire night with someone who wasn’t him?

She was surprised to feel a twinge of disappointment. She didn’t want to stay with Ronnie – no, not after last night – but she’d never pictured herself a cheater, someone who lied and two-timed. She’d never thought bringing Ronnie home with her would lead to all this. Or that she was so weak-willed as to be sucked back into Mercy’s trap again.

She didn’t want to think it was a trap; it didn’t feel like one. He’d been too raw, too hurt, too honest with her last night for it to feel like manipulation.

But then again, he refused to give her the answers she needed.

And Ronnie wanted to talk.

And the Carpathians wanted blood.

And she wanted to throw up.

With a sigh, she fixed her gaze on Miss Coleridge and picked up her pen again. Back to the new MLA rules. When in doubt, always turn to writing. The world could be explained away as the ink rolled off the tip of a pen.

Ghost had been pawing around on her desk again. The orderly cup of pens had been spilled; pens and pencils had rolled everywhere. The stapler was on the floor. The tidy stacks of invoices on her blotter had been pushed around, stacked again loosely and out of order.

“Military precision my ass,” she muttered, plucking up the paperclips from the tipped-over plastic bin that held them. It looked like a whole herd of cattle had run across the desk, disturbing everything, even if just by a hair.

So distracted, she didn’t hear the footfalls approach the open central office door and was surprised to hear someone say, “Maggie?”

When she glanced up, her pasta breakfast turned to lead in her gut. In the open threshold, framed by morning sunlight, stood Olivia Donaldson, Ghost’s ex-wife.

The sight of the woman always sent her into a full-tilt rage, but she said, “Liv,” coolly, without interest or emotion, and continued to sort her desk, only half-watching. “What’s the matter? Civilian life get too boring? You needed a taste of what you left behind?”

Olivia folded her arms. “Hardly. I’m here because Kenny called me and asked for a favor.”

Kenny. The sound of his name on Olivia’s tongue made her absolutely murderous. It wasn’t rational – at least, not mostly – her hatred of this woman, but that didn’t mean she could control the rage that bubbled up inside her.

“Oh, honey.” Maggie gave her the worst grin she could conjure. “I’m handing out more favors than you ever did.”

Snort. “I’m sure. But not that kind of favor. The club wants to help with a charity fundraiser.” Little shrug. “I said I could come by and talk options with you. But if that won’t work…” Small lift to her plucked brows, to make Maggie feel petty and small.

Maggie took a deep breath, scraped together all her composure, and nodded, gesturing to the chair across the desk.

Ghost’s ex settled into it and smoothed her hands down the legs of her slacks, smoothing away each and every tiny wrinkle. Spotless as always, she plucked invisible lint from her blazer and flicked it away into an incoming sunbeam.

Born Olivia Stacey, she’d become Olivia Teague at eighteen, when she’d married her high school sweetheart Ghost. She’d lasted only a few years, pulling back as Ghost entrenched himself deeper and deeper into his uncle’s club. She’d given birth to Aidan, promptly dumped him into Ghost’s lap – “He’ll end up just like you, and I can’t handle that,” she’d said, according to Ghost – and run off. She’d been gone almost a year before she returned to Knoxville married to an investment banker with deep ties to the University. She’d started a new family, the family she’d always wanted. She and her husband had three children, an all-brick two-story in Alcoa, white picket fence, champagne-colored crossover SUVs, and everything else on the suburban checklist. She’d made only the most minimal efforts with Aidan through the years, believing him to be a lost cause.

She was fifty, Ghost’s age, and though the years had not been kind, she dressed immaculately in all designer labels, and wore her hair in a sleek short cut that could have looked mannish if she hadn’t styled it just so and accessorized with flashy, feminine earrings. Her makeup was expert, her lipstick a tasteful mauve.

Aidan looked nothing like her, for which Maggie had always been grateful.

“You know my boys,” Maggie said, “always trying to help the community.”

Olivia’s lips pursed in graceful distaste. “Yes. They’re pillars, really.” She had a briefcase and drew a file folder from inside it. “Kenny said he wanted to do something visible, boost the goodwill of the club. There’s really only one event that’s suitable.” She opened the folder and set it on the desk, turned so Maggie could read the fliers. “The KHS Yard Sale.”

Maggie scanned the paperwork, brows lifting. “A yard sale? Not exactly high profile.”

“This one is.” One manicured French-tipped nail tapped at the top line of the flier where it readTenth Annual. “This function has been running for ten years, and in that time, has earned over two-hundred thousand dollars for the children’s hospital. The money goes to research childhood cancer, fund special activities for the children, provide medical care of families in financial need. It’s a very worthwhile cause, and it’s coming up soon. Next week. It’s held at the high school, hence the name.”

Maggie sat back in her chair. “Hence the name,” she echoed, with no small amount of mockery.

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