Page 27 of Anchor
She was quieter than last night, like sayingI’m not okayhad let the pressure out just enough. When the plates were cleared, she stirred her coffee, eyes on the swirl. “So, what’s your apartment like?”
Reid leaned back. “Bare-bones.”
She gave him a look. “That’s not an answer.”
He exhaled. “Chase-issued. One bedroom. Sparse kitchen. Couch, chair, counter with stools. Desk, filing cabinet, safe. That’s it.”
“No table? No rugs? No anything?”
“It’s efficient.”
Claire set down her cup. “You can’t lead a team out of a storage unit.”
Reid raised a brow. “And?”
“We’re going shopping.”
He blinked. “Shopping?”
“Shopping,” she said firmly. “You need furniture. A presence. Something that says command, not surveillance van.”
A beat. Then a dry smile. “You’re volunteering?”
Her eyes glinted. “I don’t volunteer. I decide.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced down, and the sharpness in her expression flickered the second she saw the name:Heather Bowman.
Claire’s posture shifted instantly. Her shoulders caved in, and her chin grew tight. She silenced the buzz with her thumb, but the phone lit up again immediately. Her jaw set, the faintest tremor of tension running through her.
“You gonna answer that?”
She gave one sharp exhale. “If I don’t, she’ll keep calling.” Her hand closed around the phone, knuckles white as she pressed it to her ear. “Mother.” The single word carried every ounce of steel she hadn’t shown since the gala.
Heather Bowman’s voice came sharp and cold, her tone meant to cut through marble walls and Claire. “You will be at the museum Tuesday night. The University of Michigan expects its faculty to support these events, and, as a professor, you will be there. I’m including it as part of my campaign. After what you pulled at the gala, it’s the least you can do.”
The words stung, but not from surprise. They always landed the same way, as if no matter what Claire did, she was already on trial.
Her jaw locked, and she forced her voice even. “I’m already planning to attend. My department has an exhibit as part of the opening.”
Heather’s tone softened in volume but not in edge. “Good. Do not embarrass me again. This is about image, Claire. If you can’t manage that, just stay quiet and stand beside me where you belong. I will send you instructions on hair and dress.”
“Mother, I’ve been dressing on my own since I was five.”
The word “belong” pressed like a hand on the back of her neck. Claire stared at the far wall, spine rigid, refusing to give in to the familiar ache in her chest. Silence stretched, and just as she expected, her mother filled it with a sharp, impatient sigh.
Finally, Claire’s voice came out flat, steady only because she refused to let it crack. “I’ll be there Tuesday.”
“See that you are.” The line went dead with a sharp click.
For a moment, Claire just held the phone against her ear, the plastic hot from her grip, before lowering it and setting it face down on the table like it had burned her. Her breath slid out slow, controlled, though her pulse still beat hard at the base of her throat.
Across from her, Reid was watching. Steady, as always. She could feel his gaze settle into her skin.
“She’s holding a campaign stop at the UMich museum.” Claire’s voice was thinner than she wanted. “Tuesday night. She wants me there.”
Reid didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. “And you agreed.”
A grimace tugged her mouth, though the corner almost twisted into a smile at the absurdity of it. “Because I was already going. My department’s exhibit opens that night. It’s my job, not her command.” She shook her head once. “She doesn’t get the difference.”
