"R.I.P to my youth, and you could call this the funeral
I'm just telling the truth, and you can play this at my funeral
Wrap me up in Chanel inside my coffin,
Might go to hell and there ain't no stopping
Might be a sinner and I might be a saint
I'd like to be proud but somehow I'm ashamed"

- The Neighborhood, "R.I.P. 2 My Youth"

Chapter Twenty-Eight

"Warren Cawton. Held position of Chief Financial Officer at Seaplast Corporation. Lost every dime when the company went under." He recited facts like he always did, like a machine rattling off succinct bullet points.

"And the photos? What do they mean?"

Please. Please tell me they don't mean what I think they do. Tell me it was a coincidence. Tell me this case isn't really important, that Cawton isn't important. Reassure me he's innocent until proven guilty.

His eyes narrowed as he decided something. He pulled the laptop off the bed and settled in the chair again. A few moments passed as I focused on swallowing the nausea pooling in my throat.

"Ramos." A familiar voice sounded from the computer in his lap.

"Beck. We need some information." He stood and sat next to me on the bed, angling the screen so I could see the warm smile of my favorite computer analyst. Beck's eyes grew wide as my disheveled appearance came into view.

"Avery! How are you?"

"Better than yesterday." I managed a weak smile.

"Good. You gave us a hell of a scare." Beck's relief was genuine as he gave me his famous grin.

"Beck. Warren Cawton. Where are we with the rest of his background?"

Beck's attention was immediately pulled at his coworker's question. He turned to his screen, quickly pulling up the investigation.

"Warren Cawton. Held CFO position with Seaplast Corporation for three years before the company was dissolved. Looks like he grew up wealthy, courtesy of a hot shot stock broker dad."

Like I said, daddy's legal team.

"No experience before he got the CFO job," Beck mused as his eyes slid over the report.

Nepotism. I called it.

"Other family? Connections?" The man beside me leaned forward slightly.

"Plenty of connections. Between his dad and his brother, his family has more ties than Men's Wearhouse." Beck snorted. "You name another member of the upper-class and there's probably some connection."

"His brother?"

"I'm getting there. Warren has an older brother — Richard Cawton."

It was my turn to interrupt. "Did you say 'Richard Cawton'?"

Why hadn't I connected the names?

Green eyes turned sharply to me. "Do you know him?"

"Every politician from here to Delaware knows him. He's a dirtbag sitting pretty in the House of Representatives. Well-known jackass. He manipulates his constituents to stay in office."

"Looks like he won't be sitting pretty much longer. He managed to keep his seat in another election two years after his brother's scandal, but he's not favored to win this year," Beck continued reading the report. "His opponent's bringing up his family ties every chance he gets. It's turning the tide."

"Good. He's awful," I emphasized. The bed lifted as I was left alone on the mattress. I watched his long strides cross back and forth, his steps sure as he paced.

"Her name isn't on the case file, but she was involved. She asked questions, found some answers to loopholes." He talked to Beck like I wasn't there.

Beck sat thoughtfully.

"So this company goes down, and the Cawton family might lose another brother's wealth because of it. Is that why they chose now? It's been four years. That's a long time to wait for revenge," Beck replied. "Is Richard's potential loss the trigger?"

"I'm sorry," I laughed nervously, "it sounds like you're saying you think I almost took a bullet because I asked a few questions. I wrote a paper! Why would the Cawtons or anyone else give a damn about me? Of all the people in that building who worked on the case, I did the least. I didn't even really work on it!"

Their silence was louder than their words. The tall frame blocking the TV hesitated but resumed wearing out the floor.

"Company goes down, and four years later they're looking for revenge. Is the rest of the team associated with the case being targeted as well?" Ster—no, Reed's voice was sharp. While he spoke the question out loud, he was not waiting for a reply. His mind was carefully considering any possibilities, processing and tucking away whatever he was able to glean.

He wasn't expecting an answer, he was making a checklist. A list of questions he'd find the answers to, because that was his job. That was who he was.

"Where are the Cawtons now? Is the brother involved? No new security threats have been reported so if the entire team is being targeted, no moves have been made yet. At least, that we know of," he continued. His shoulders stiffened. "As of now, the only evidence is the photos but that's a hell of a coincidence. Warren just happened to be strolling downtown the same time someone's stalking her? He's someone with motive and connected to a case. A case that can be traced back to both victims. It's too big of a coincidence that a man who lost everything just happened to be in the vicinity."

Beck nodded grimly.

"I'm right here, just so we're all on the same page." I tasted blood in my mouth. My teeth pressed deeper into my cheek.

It was starting to sink in. Really sink in.

"We've been working on tracking Warren since we made the connection. He's in the wind. No properties or addresses since Seaplast sunk. No bank alerts or cell activity since the night of the party either." Beck shook his head.

The chance of coincidence gets smaller.

"And his cell records from before the party?" Reed's face was tight.

"Well, he doesn't have a manifesto written in his notes app if that's what you're asking. He calls his mom every Sunday. Every other call is to his dad or brother." Beck paused, his cautious brown eyes flicking to me. "We're getting closer, Avery."

I nodded numbly.

Four years. How did he even know? How did Warren know I had anything to do with this? No one saw that report but Cruz. He wouldn't tell. And why me, of everyone on the team? Why now? Why now, when I was so close to D.C.?

"I was so close. I was heading to D.C.," I whispered.

"What?" Reed looked intently at me.

"I was heading to D.C.," I said louder. A match was struck behind the green, a new flame that sparked and glistened.

"You made them nervous," he speculated. "You took down one brother and was about to be in a prime city to take down another." He turned to Beck. "That gives more credibility to the election being the trigger. Richard's in the hot seat right now. If they've spent the last four years thinking she had behind the scenes pull with Seaplast's demise, and she's about to head to D.C.—"

"—where the oldest Cawton brother is fighting to stay relevant," Beck jumped in.

"She wouldn't be welcomed with open arms." Reed finished. Beck was typing furiously.

"I was going to D.C. to eat French food and work for an ambassador, not interfere in elections," I objected furiously. "You're saying this is some preemptive strike before I get to the city?"

"Warren lost everything that day in court. He could have been looking for someone to blame. If he did some digging and found out you were the one asking questions, then got promoted immediately after... well, you would be the perfect target. He might think you had more involvement than you actually did. Not only that, you're close to Cruz. His brother might lose everything too, increasing the personal factor. That could have been what pushed him over the edge now. Or he's been planning whatever twisted plan he thought you deserved for the last couple of years."

His words suggested he was speaking to me, but he wasn't. Reed wasn't paying attention to Beck or I now.

He was musing out loud, repeating what conclusions he'd drawn. He'd taken this theory and ran. He was weaving motive like a fine tapestry, diligent and focused, preparing a complete summary to put at the bottom of his own case file. He wasn't aware of the who or the what of his surroundings as he talked—he was in his head, putting the pieces together as steadily as he'd done with our abandoned puzzle at the safehouse. Focused and unaware of anything but how the pieces clicked.

I was a spectator, watching the picture form. Watching the pieces snap into place, captivated as he carefully considered what would fit next. I wasn't touching any puzzle pieces, refusing to participate, but they were being carefully put into their rightful place anyway.

Bile was rapidly rising. The room was moving too fast. Was the bed shaking, or was that me?

I was twenty years old. I wrote an essay. I was twenty years old. I wrote an essay. I was twenty. Years. Old. I wrote an essay.

His words thundered on the walls of my psyche.

Whatever twisted plan he thought you deserved.

I didn't deserve anything. I hadn't even deserved the promotion. This was all because of nothing? This was all because an overzealous college graduate was eager to impress her boss?

Half of the motive they described was based on what someone could believe I did. Not what I actually did. Sure, I understood the loss of a career could drive someone insane; the loss of a dream could wither any traces of common sense.

I'm intimately aware of that. I don't even know how much common sense Warren Cawton had to begin with, given the company he helped run.

I understood some minds snapped under pressure, that violent tendencies could be woken and ignited by loss. I'd watched enough true crime documentaries to know there wasn't always solid reasoning behind depraved decisions—that sometimes all it took was something as tiny and insignificant as a wrong look to seal your fate.

I understood that. I did. But this?

This doesn't happen to me. This happens to other people. Other people get tangled up in this. Not me. Other people have the exciting, terrifying lives. Not me. I drink wine with my best friend. I try to keep my dog from eating my shoes. That's my excitement.

True crime documentaries couldn't explain this. Knowing Warren could've drawn conclusions without evidence did not help me grasp clarity or acceptance. There was no way to understand the distinct possibility that this was not due to some heroic action I did, or some groundbreaking legislation I helped draft. None of it was helping me process there was a chance this could be nothing more than a hopeless, desperate man's fixation on an easy target.

An easy target. A perfect target.

"We'll have to regroup—"

Reed cut off abruptly as he turned to me. My expression must've given me away; I was mere seconds from either being sick or bursting into tears.

Or both.

"Inform Romano. Make sure all lines remain encrypted. I'll call again at our next stop." Reed strode forward and closed the laptop before Beck could respond.

I was pleading for answers, for alternatives, as I met his eyes. "I didn't do anything. Not worth this."

I knew he didn't have answers. And I knew there might not be another reason for the target on my back other than the ones we surmised. But when I was first told there was a chance I was being targeted, I expected to hear it was because of some big case I did. A case where I aided the district attorney, or a defendant I pissed off. Maybe because of some freedom-quenching final argument I helped a prosecutor write. Anything that made sense.

Now I was faced with a possible answer, and I was realizing there wasn't any answer that would make sense. Because none of it made sense. Being targeted, shot at, and stalked did not make sense. There was no motivation, no explanation, no evidence that could fully explain everything that'd happened.

Would I ever be satisfied with the answer, whatever it was? The answer to why? I don't think there is a right answer. I don't think it should be a question at all.

"Avery, breathe." Reed sat next to me, his hand hovering.

I was breathing, just not well.

How many times do I have to break down in front of him? How many times does he have to say that to me because my life has turned upside down again? How many times will I feel helpless?

But the biggest question I asked myself, was how many more times was I going to feel ashamed for feeling this way? How many times would I be embarrassed for letting myself feel and break down, no matter how intense the situation was? Why did I feel the need to censor myself, or count how many times I lost it, when I was losing everything?

Maybe I was reacting too much. Maybe I needed to swallow down the pain, the confusion, the utter grief of who I was and what I lost, and lift my chin. Maybe someone else would handle this better than I was.

Maybe someone else would be stronger.

"I'm sorry," I abruptly choked out. "I'm sorry I'm upset again, and that I was mad. I'm sorry I pushed you to talk. I keep losing my mind. I'm sorry."

I apologized for my feelings, my outbursts as my life fell apart. I apologized for apologizing. Because I hated myself for apologizing, but then felt terrible for feeling that way about myself.

And I apologized for dragging him into this.

"I'm sorry if you think I'm trying to change you after yesterday," I continued. "I don't want to change you. I just want you to be comfortable."

Comfortable with me. With yourself. I want to be worth your time.

"Stop," Reed said firmly.

"I—"

"Stop."

Whatever had been holding him back was pushed aside as his hand settled on my back. Calming circles were tenderly drawn in slow motion, swirling the emotions that threatened a tornado.

He knew there was nothing else to be said, no answers he could provide; no other grounding techniques he could lead me through to bring me down. So instead, he leaned a little closer and offered the next best thing.

The big, bad Reed Sterling offered me a shoulder to cry on.