"What do you think she's doing here?" Reese exploded. "She's stalking my man. What else has she ever done? She's obsessed with him. She's probably never going to leave him alone until someone finally takes her out."
Eyes lighting with intent, she grabbed my hands and squeezed them hard. "Oh my God, E. Let's take her out. Together. We're in a big-ass Jeep." Her fingers clamped even tighter around mine. "When she comes back out, let's gun the engine, pop this curb and run her wicked ass over. Oops, total accident. What was she thinking by jaywalking across a busy street in the middle of the night? And then . . . " She nodded, as if coming to the best part of the story. "While the car's lying on top of her and the only things poking out are her glittery red Christian Louboutins, I say we steal her shoes and run."
Wow, what was this, the homicidal version of The Wizard of Oz?
While, yes, I had to agree Mrs. Garrison, Mason's rapist—er, I mean, the rapist of Mason since she wasn't Mason's anything—was the Wicked Witch of Florida, that still didn't mean manslaughter was a good option.
And hello, how had I turned into the rational one?
"Yeah . . . " I said slowly before shaking my head. "No, I think maybe we should shy away from anything involving . . . murder."
"Murder?" Reese snorted. "It wouldn't be murder. It'd be . . . it'd be doing society a favor to rid that kind of evil from the world. It'd be a public service."
Crap, she was beginning to scare me. "But you weren't sure it was her, remember? The shadows. The dark. She was all the way across the street. It was probably someone else, sweetie."
Reese took a long, deep breath, physically calming herself. But she wouldn't stop staring at the front doors of Forbidden.
"How about you guess another baby name," I tried, suddenly glad I had refused to tell her what I'd decided to name my little girl; now I had something to use as a distraction. "You're on the letter I, remember? Maybe you could try to come up with something different than Isabella this time."
"Idiot," she hissed.
"What! Why would anyone name their kid Idiot?"
"No. I'm the idiot. I was so sure moving us halfway across the country away from her would get her out of his hair and free him from her forever, but—oh God. There." She pointed. "There she is." She covered her mouth and whimpered. "It's her, E. It's really her."
I'd never actually met Mrs. Garrison before. Never even seen her. I'd only heard Reese's horror stories. The woman was Mason's living nightmare. Sorry, I meant, the living nightmare of Mason.
It was dark, and I barely saw her face. But she did have a certain air about her that reminded me of my father. Rapists were all the same—predators.
"Are you sure? I can barely see her," I insisted, trying to keep Reese calm so her reactions wouldn't throw me into a panic attack, because that atmosphere about her freaked me the hell out.
"Yes," she said with steely determination as she reached for the keys still dangling from the ignition.
"Whoa. No." I reached out and caught her hand. "This is not . . . you shouldn't . . . " Damn, I was no good at this. We really needed Mason here. I'd never seen my cousin this unhinged before, but if anyone could draw her back from the ledge, it'd be him.
"Mason," I gasped, an idea hitting me.
Reese glanced sharply at me. Wow, even his name broke through her haze.
"What about him?"
"He's inside. If she went in there, she probably saw him, right? So don't you want to make sure he's okay?" I snatched her phone off the center console and thrust it at her. "Call him."
He'd make this better. He'd tell her she was mistaken, his blackmailing rapist was nowhere near Illinois, and everything was fine.
Blowing out a shaky breath, Reese nodded and dialed his number.
"Put it on speaker phone," I demanded, beginning to chew on my own nails as I turned to stare at the opening of the club, where the wicked witch lookalike had thankfully disappeared down the block.
Reese complied and I listened to the phone ring and ring, and ring. When it went to voice mail, she cursed and hung up.
I bit down a little harder on my thumbnail, wondering why he hadn't picked up. Mason always answered the phone when Reese called. It was all part of how disgustingly adorable they were together.
"Call again," I ordered.
She did. Then she did again. Baby Girl must've noticed the growing unease in me because she stirred in restless agitation. I smoothed my fingers over her, my palms naturally ironing down the image of Tinker Bell I had on the nightshirt I wore.
When the ringing stopped and the line clicked on, Reese and I sat up straighter and shared a relieved look. Until a muted voice as if it were a distance away from the receiver shouted, "Shit! Are you really going to tell her some old chick just came in, claiming Lowe knocked her up?"
"Say what?" Reese cried.
Immediately, the line went dead.
"Oh, no, they did not." Reese redialed.