AN: Sorry that this update didn't come out sooner, like I planned, I'll try to do better on the next one. Also I this turned out a tad bit longer, so please forgive me. 😊

Chapter

Three

RICK

My mother barges into my room without knocking. She's so preoccupied with what to prepare for breakfast that she completely ignores the fact that I'm sitting on the edge of my bed with nothing on but a damp towel wrapped around my waist.

"You think French toast, eggs and coffee would be okay for Michonne, right?" she asks, pacing my bedroom floor.

"Ma, aren't you two friends? Why don't you go ask her?"

She smacks me in my shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous Ricky. She's our guest. It's been awhile since I've had guests. I just want her to feel comfortable, not as though we're putting her on the spot. Maybe I could run to the deli and get some bagels? The blueberry ones. Or a Reuben sandwich. That's actually Carl's favorite. It'll be a nice treat."

When she realizes I'm not responding, she stops making tracks and furrows her brows. "Is something wrong? You're distracted, you don't seem to be listening to me."

If my mother only knew. Right now, with my left leg extended, I'm rubbing my knee thinking about how this old injury ultimately cost me my track scholarship at UVA at the start of my Junior year and Michonne's friendship. "No Ma, I'm listening. There's no time to make a run, Carl has to get going for school. Keep it simple."

"You know what? You're absolutely right," she quickly concedes. "We'll do something nice for dinner instead. I'll have more time to prepare."

"Hey, Mom, no one is to know she's here, alright?"

"With my failing memory that may not be a problem," she jokes.

A sticky lump jams me to the back of my throat. "Mom."

"Ricky please," she waves away my concern, "Whether you like it or not, this is my reality. Better to have some fun with it. Besides, I'm not that far gone yet." She places her hands on either side of my face now and tilts my head up. "Listen, I am so proud that you're giving it your best to help her. Lord knows the hell she's been put through. But she's so exceptional at handling her burdens, I don't know how she does it. "

My mother always thought Michonne was exceptional. Unlike Lori—her actual daughter-in-law, mother to her eldest grandchild.

"Okay, get some clothes on and zip your tush downstairs as quickly as possible," Mom says taking her leave. "I could hear her already up and about so I'm gonna get busy. Breakfast would be ready in fifteen minutes."

When I first brought Michonne to my house, Mom was altogether taken aback by our friendship. The amount of exclusive time I spent with Michonne made her wary. It didn't take long however, for Michonne's endearing qualities to work their magic, putting my mother at such ease that eventually Michonne was invited to drop by whenever she damn well pleased regardless if I was actually at home or not.

"All I want for both of my boys, is for them to find someone who respects and understands them," Mom had said one night after Michonne ate dinner at our house. Swirling a glass of white wine, my mother smiled her meddling smile.

I dumped the pizza box into the trash before tying up the garbage bag. "And you think Lori doesn't respect and understand me Ma?"

"I never said that Rick." She feigned innocence, as though that weighty statement was not a direct hit on my girlfriend for the past three years. Ma then threw an obvious glance towards the porch where Michonne was waiting for me to take her home.

I sighed. "Ma, for the umpteenth time, Michonne and I are just friends. I'm in-love with Lori."

"In-love? Since when?"

I shrugged. "Since forever. Thought you knew that by now." True, when my parents split up and Mom and I escaped to Trinity Hills whilst my younger brother, Spencer, stayed in Sandy Springs with our bastard of a father, Lori and I had found it difficult to maintain our own "long-distance" relationship. We had been "on-again, off-again" more times than I could count since we'd been fourteen.

"Get real, Rick," Mom laughed obnoxiously. "You're too young. Young people are always confused."

I shot her an incredulous look. Confused was right. Two seconds ago she was offering up Michonne to me on a silver platter as an option for some "respect and understanding." Knowing when it was best not to get into a mind-warping debate with one's conniving mother, I sidestepped the topic by kissing my number one girl on her cheek before heading towards the front door. Trash bag in tow.

"You have your keys?" she'd asked.

I shook my head. "I'll be back soon."

"That's what you always say. Then I find myself crawling out of bed to come down and open up to let you in," she'd smirked.

As usual, she was right. Michonne and I had spent hours parked in front of her house just talking till it was midnight. The rift between my parents caused a rift between my younger brother and me, and I had desperately needed to vent. Michonne sat in silence, listening, holding my hand as I confessed all the twisted ways my Dad loved to mess with us, his family. Richard Grimes Sr., time and again, proved to be both an emotional and a psychological wrecking ball. But he had money, and with it some power. Spencer valued the advantages that came with our Dad's influence, over sticking with our mother.

Michonne's only words whispered after I spilled my pain, were, "I understand," and "It'll be alright."

That became the norm for us. Like salve, she was an incredible listener. I never had to censor myself, or worry about if my issues were being blown out of proportion or anything. The freedom of opening up without fear of criticism and judgment was addictive.

Years later, it's the sole reason why I'd divulged to her, and only her, my "unhealthy attachment" to the prescription painkillers given to me after my ligaments shredded during track practice in college.

In doing so, confiding in my best friend, however, I had also crossed a line. It didn't take much, as I knew it wouldn't, to convince her to help me make a terrible decision to cover up my secret.

Right after, though, guilt toxified my system. To the point where I became unkind and distant. I did try to reconnect with Michonne when I got myself cleaned up. But she'd decided holding on to our friendship wasn't worth it. That I wasn't worth it.

She never came out and said those exact words, but her attitude was closed off the few times we spoke on the phone. I could sense the difference and hear the disapproving tone she carried in her voice. As though, all of a sudden I was beneath her. Did she know how long I struggled with my addiction? I doubted that. We lived hundreds of miles apart. Me, in Charlottesville, Virginia. Her in Queens, New York. In due time, we both moved on and lost touch with each other entirely.

Until now, that is. Both bruised and broken and back home with less than half a mile between us. After all this time, it takes something drastic for Michonne and I to reacquaint ourselves—a murder.

€…..€

"Thank you Michonne for clearing up the breakfast dishes," Mom says, as she packs her handbag with the bowl of fruit I fixed for her as a snack, "But honey, Rick was more than capable, you didn't have to trouble yourself."

Michonne looks up from the game Carl's showing her from his tablet at the dining table. "No trouble. Everything tasted incredible, and I just wanted to express my gratitude to you for allowing me to stay here in your house. I promise it's only for a little while." She blinks over at me, hoping that it would really only be for a little while.

My mother hooks her arm through mine. "Are you kidding me? The pleasure is ours. Isn't that right son?"

I suddenly feel the need to clear my throat. "Of course…"

Looking at the time I send Carl off to his room to finish get himself together for school. Despite the short notice, his buddy Patrick did me a favor by asking his dad if Carl could join the carpool just for this morning. Today, I've decided not to go into the office. I want to see how much I could accomplish on this case with Michonne from home.

"Need me to bring anything back?" Mom asks, as I walk her to the closet helping her into her jacket. Mom's been scheduled to go into the local clinic where she volunteers. Usually they allow her to spend 3 to 4 hours carrying out simple duties such as patient check-in and check-out, entrance monitoring, and volunteer registration and translation. It's the most she can safely do given her situation, and it's only three times a week. "Reg is picking me up after my shift at the clinic. We'll swing by the grocery before coming home."

Suddenly my hands go still at her shoulders. "Wait. Reg?"

"Mr. Munroe," Michonne explains, now standing next to me smelling like peaches and the beginning of spring. "He lives just down the street around the corner."

"Yeah, I know who he is," I reply. The retired veterinarian has lived in Burkeside for almost as long as we have. The widower usually keeps to himself. "But why is he picking you up, is what I'd like to know."

My mother smirks. "Oh Ricky—"

"Nope. Don't "Oh Ricky" me. Come on out with it."

Mom pulls her hair out from under her collar. "Michonne, you see what I have to put up with it? It's like I told you."

Michonne cracks a tiny smile. "Mmhm. I see."

So these two talk about me? Interesting.

"Who's the parent and who's the child?" My mother turns to retrieve her handbag from off the closet door hook.

"You still haven't answered my question," I say, clenching my jaw and tightening my fists.

"Reg is a handsome, eligible bachelor, and I'm a single, white female. You figure it out." Wiggling her ringless fingers in my face, my mother licks her top lip in a way that's too seductive for a woman in her sixties.

Michonne turns her head, settling her gaze upon me, waiting for my answer. I swear there's amusement skipping about in her pretty dark eyes. At my expense?

"Maybe I could take you to the store later," I offer, with every intention of carrying out a full blown interrogation to find out just what the hell has been going on.

"Why is that? I'm grown. Besides," Mom waves a finger back and forth between Michonne and me, "you two have a lot of things to work through."

The rigid turn of expression on Michonne's face is hard to miss. Now it's my turn to be amused by her discomfiture.

"Okay, my ride is here," Mom says, her attention caught by Nurse Anderson honking her horn in front of the house.

"Make sure your phone is charged and close by," I say. "I'll be checking in on you."

"Yes dear. Love you too." Mom tip toes and I lean down for her to give me my kiss. She smacks her rose pink lips loudly against my cheek. The second before she walks out the door she looks over her shoulder at Michonne. "Seldom does my son have patience with the stupid, and never does he have tolerance for the unjust. In other words, he's a bulldog at his job. Trust him."

Michonne locks her eyes with mine and lifts her shoulders in a half shrug. "I do." She and I both know she has no other choice.

Once Carl too was gone, Michonne and I returned to the dining table, our mindsets switched to getting down to business. There was work to be done.

"What's this?"

Michonne places a thin folder next to my laptop settling herself into the seat next to mine.

"This is all I have so far on Josy." She traces her finger over the page reciting off the printed facts. "Josanne Tatiana Espinosa; Lives…lived with her mother and grandmother in Hillside, and attends Montrichard's kindergarten not too far from home on Jericho avenue. She's only three years old. Born at Piedmont hospital, Atlanta, back in 2014 on the twenty-eight of June via a C-section. And her father's name was left blank on her birth certificate."

I attempted to restrain my widening smile. "This, this is good. How did you get this? Facebook or something?" My challenge is slightly cheeky, but mostly good-natured. I'm genuinely impressed.

"Are you serious?" Her expression pinches. "My dissertation was on research methods. It's the essence of my job."

"You're a bulldog too huh?" I continue to tease.

She huffs and shakes her head. "Not really, Rick. This isn't much, I know. But I'm not done." She moves to sit behind her own computer on the opposite side of the table. "Strangely enough, Annabella doesn't even have a Facebook account. Or Instagram, or any other social media under her name as a matter of fact. Her mother does though. Mrs. Clara Josephine, mother of two, age 56, widowed at 38, and a retired nurse."

Last night, questions, scenarios and possible outcomes did laps around my head concerning Michonne's decision to hide this key at the victim's request. I went over and over again her answer to my number one query: "Why not hand over the key to her family?" From what I'd gathered, she reasoned that if this guy killed Annabella in cold blood, what's to stop him from killing Annabella's mother and her daughter. And If we take it to the police now, now we risk handing it right over to this criminal because he quite possibly has someone on the inside given how easily he found out where Michonne lives.

In either case, we needed to make a decision quickly. She may not have known that the key was related to Annabella's murder, but now it's highly likely. And the longer we hold on to this piece of evidence the higher the chances she could most definitely get booked for obstruction of justice.

"We really should be cross referencing which bank matches the key," I say, "More than likely it's an FTB key, given that Annabella was presumably on her way to see her sister, Rosita, that day. In order to confirm that, though, I'd have to talk with her myself. Find out if she had a pre-existing appointment with her sister. Also, if the key really belongs to FTB bank, then Rosita must know what's in the box. Could be money, something else of value, jewelry, a policy, or some other document." I shake my head, still not 100% sure if this is what this guy was after. But then again, it has to be. The key is the only connection to why Michonne's place was broken into but not burglarized.

"I think," Michonne murmurs, cutting into my thoughts, "the only way to access a safe deposit box of someone who's deceased, is if the box was registered in the name of a trust."

"Josy?"

"Yeah," she says. "Then the successor trustee would be able to get to it."

I nod. "The tattoo you saw, represents a gang out in Atlanta. And according to your intel, three years ago Annabella also lived in Atlanta. This guy could allegedly be Josy's father."

She shrugs. "But maybe not."

"Yeah I know, it's just a theory. Because if he is, in this case, maybe she was on the run from him and this is personal. When it's personal, trust me it makes all the difference."

Michonne lowers her gaze, giving thought to my speculation. "He went into a rage," she says after a moment, "I saw something snap within him and he reacted. It's like I said, an inhuman look in his eyes. Something took over. But now, maybe he's realizing his mistake. We need to talk to her sister, or her mother. Or both. I could drive over to the bank now, ask to speak to Miss Espinosa."

I hold out my arm in protest as she slides out of her chair. "Uh, here's the thing. You're supposed to be keeping a low-profile. Remember that?"

"What? I have to stay cooped up here?"

"Michonne, someone has leaked your identity and address to a killer. Do we really have to go over this again?"

"Look…" she sighs, "I get why we're playing it safe, but you shouldn't underestimate me. I should go with you. We'll solve this faster together. I'm not that same naïve school girl from before."

"Of course not." Was she ever? "Listen, you do your thing. Work on getting more information but from here. Where no one suspects you're hiding."

She intertwines her arms across her chest.

"Michonne?"

"Okay!" She shakes her head. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I'm—I'm just…"

"Impatient?"

She winced at my choice of word.

'Jesus, why did I just say that?'

"Was gonna say frustrated, but okay."

"Now, I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. The word just—it just slipped, what I meant to say was..."

"No," she drops back into her seat, "You're right. I am impatient. And stubborn."

I put my arm up. "Same. On both counts. And I can understand your frustrations. Trust me, I do. You went through something traumatizing. Made a split second decision that, in the moment, seemed to be the decent thing to do, but now maybe not. You're not safe in your own home and your life is possibly in danger. Shit, I'd be impatient and frustrated too. "

She nods with a pensive frown.

"But I'm thinking can't plow through life without obtaining some battle scars. Right?"

She shrugs. "I think I have more than enough for two lifetimes."

That made the two of us. However, I wouldn't be so bold as to compare my tragic experiences to hers.

My mother (aka my direct 411 line to what's going on in my ex-best friend's life) once explained how Michonne lost her son. How he had gotten very sick, very fast, and his little body just gave out. That loss led to the immediate breakdown of her marriage. Mom said she thinks that's how Shane managed to get his hooks in. He took advantage of her vulnerability. She may have been right, but then again they stayed together for so long. If part of Michonne is still like anything she used to be before, I think she let the relationship happen, stuck with it because she wanted it. Not the other way round. No one makes Michonne do anything she wasn't already committed to doing. And if she was committed to change her mind, hell would freeze over before anyone could convince her to change it back. Her will and resoluteness is that formidable.

Even now I can see that fiery determination in her eyes, and I am not gonna lie but it flickers something carnal in me. A charge. Warm and familiar. I like it. But I stand my ground. Although, I won't be surprised if she snuck out of here as soon as she gets the chance.

My hand reaches for my phone and I contact Daryl. I explain how I need him to squeeze me into his schedule as soon as possible, because after I make that trip up to Hillside, I have to be back in time to collect Carl from school, then take him to his chess club for practice. Daryl's unable to make any promises, however. Says he's got some background checking to do for Maggie's two new clients. His hands are tied but he'll call me back as soon as he's available.

"Carl and I are counting down the days till he gets his driver's permit," I think out loud. "Would make both of our lives a whole lot easier. You remember when you went for yours?" I ask Michonne. "How excited you were?"

"Yeah," she says with some hesitancy. She glimpses at me before putting on her glasses. I offer a smile, tugging a bashful curl of her mouth in response.

Opening her own laptop she starts typing away. "Excited? More like I was feeling myself that's for sure."

"Thought you had it in the bag?"

"Thought I had it in the bag. But then only to fail in the stupid parking lot like a sucker. I felt so horrible, I couldn't have told anyone about it. Well, except for you and my mother. Think I even cried. But you um…you told me to come over the next day. And I did, right after school. When I got here, you came out the door holding in your hand a single sunflower."

I narrow my eyes.

'Really?'

She readjusts herself in her seat. "Told me not to feel too bad, cause you didn't pass on your first try either, and then you surprised me with another gift—my favorite box of chocolates."

For the life of me I can't recall doing any such thing. But apparently I did because it made her feel better. I am sifting through the file cabinet of my mind, but I'm drawing a blank. "You sure that was me? That guy sounds fantastic."

She laughs, and it's frickin' adorable.

"Whatever happened to that guy?"

"He grew up."

My eyebrows rise at her jab.

She gives me a 'Sorry, not sorry' shrug. I can't be mad for that.

Switching back to the topic of my son, Michonne says she'd spoken to Carl a few times before, which I already knew about, and she thinks he's a cool kid. He's smart, intuitive, and he's got that thirst for knowledge.

"He gets that from Deanna," I agree.

"And you. Always top of the class Mr. Honor student."

"So were you. And don't forget that stint you did on the debate team."

"Oh god. For like a minute. Worst decision of my life…" Something on her screen catches her attention. It's an email from the principal approving her last minute request for vacation leave.

While she responds to the message I get us some snacks. A yogurt and water for her, bag of chips for myself. Instead of returning to my side of the table though, I sink to the chair next to hers.

"Is that the same knee?" She glances down as I take care to extend my left leg.

I nod. "It is." The bump against the side table left me with a lingering, yet dull, throbbing pain.

She sips from her bottle. "Can't be that bad. Not after all these years."

"Yes, actually. But not often."

"Have you ever tried self-messages?"

"Of course. Amongst other methods. But it's not as effective."

"Yeah. Or maybe you're doing it wrong."

"You're a therapist now, smart ass?" I smile and tap the side of her glasses.

She smiles back, genuinely. "No. Just well-informed."

"Oh I bet you are." I shovel a handful of chips into my mouth.

"About two years ago my Mom got diagnosed with knee osteoarthritis. I went with her to therapy and picked up a thing or should let me show you some time."

'Excuse me?'

My ears burn in a split second. "Nah, that won't be necessary."

Her mouth pouts and she shrugs. "Suit yourself. But you can't be a sixty-year old popping Vicodin to numb your pain, Rick."

"Sixty? I just turned Forty Michonne. Now I appreciate your advice, well-intentioned as it may be, but I can take care of myself."

"Okay." She stares at me then shakes her head. "I was just thinking I owe you, is all."

"No you don't. Drop it 'cause I don't want to hear about that anymore."

Her gaze lingers on mine a little too long before she looks away.

Her phone now lights up. 'New Message: Mother.'

"How is your mom these days?" I ask, as her fingers tap on the screen.

"Same. Keeping herself busy."

"Retired?"

"Yeah right. Retired my ass. Always a mouth or two to feed."

"Still into the real estate game?"

"Yup. Flipping houses now too. Making a mint because she's so good at it."

"Damn. I'm impressed. Well… good for her," I say.

After I dispose of my empty pack and her water bottle in the trash bin of the kitchen, my legs then take the stairs two at a time as I disappear up into my room. I change into a shirt and tie and grab my jacket. I might have to interview Mrs. Clara Josephine on my own.

Still insisting that I should allow her to go along with me once I return to the dining area, I stick to my decision, tell her no. I remind Michonne of all the reasons why her talking to the victim's mother at this point is absolutely not a good idea. She concedes, but I see she's not happy about it.

If I play my cards right, this could be it, though—our second chance at having a friendship. I mean I want that, so why not? At my age, and especially after my divorce, the number of persons I can trust and confide in has dwindled to a few. Despite the years that's passed maybe I could convince Michonne to forgive and forget, once and for all.

"Michonne?"

She looks up and slides off her glasses.

My chest tightens and I loosen the knot at my throat a bit.

'Let's just get this out there, Grimes. Only way to move on.'

"You know I, I didn't mean to cause you any pain back then, right?"

Her eyes widened with unease. "Rick please, it's been so long. So much has happened that I don't hold what we did against you."

"Yeah, you do. You do," I insist, even though she's persistently shaking her head at me."That's why we stopped talking. I remember."

"No. It's—it's how you treated me…afterwards. I know you were still trying to get a handle on things, but it still hurt."

As she rises to her feet, I draw closer to her, staring down into her eyes. I want her to see, to believe how truly sorry I am. "I was an ass, wasn't I?"

I watch her bare perfectly-shaped lips fold in, and the quickening of her pulse in her neck. Swallowing her response she, instead, squints her eyes holding up her index finger and thumb close together.

I chuckle deep inside my throat. "Well, at least we can agree to that then. Listen, I did care about you, trusted you, and I loved you. Before and after. We were partners in crime."

"Literally." She snorts then laughs. "Knucklehead."

"Bubble-butt."

She gasps. "Oh my god! You did not just call me that."

"What? You still got it, and you grew into it." I peep a look at her backside. "Nicely might I add."

She smacks the side of my head. "Perv."

'Look at that. Just like old times.'

"So we're good?"

"Sure," she replies. "We're good."

MICHONNE

Mrs. Deanna Grimes slid a sinful slice of Red velvet cake passed her lips and moaned.

I can't help myself, I laugh hard. This woman has no shame and I love her for it.

"Mr. Munroe sure is spoiling you with these treats," I say right after I regain my composure.

"He's a good man. Makes me happy. But don't utter a word about this to my son." She points her fork to the last crumb on her plate.

I pretend to zip and lock my lips. I have been sworn to secrecy.

She glances around the house even though it's midday and no one else is here besides us girls. "You know, it makes me happy to see you and Ricky put your differences aside. I remember how attached you two kids were. Up to this day I could never figure out how and why you ended up hating each other."

I draw in a deep breath and set my glass of juice down on the countertop. "Oh Deanna, I don't hate Rick. Never did." Not even if I tried. "But you know how it goes. People grow, they change, forge new paths and it becomes practically impossible for relationships to stay the same." I sure as hell did not want my relationship with Rick Grimes to stay the same.

Narrowing her eyes at me, full of disbelief and wisdom, Deanna excuses herself to the bathroom.

I slump into the barstool at the kitchen island. Needing a change was the real reason I took the chance to "break-up" with him. Why put effort into something that no longer served a purpose useful to you. That sounds harsh I know, but the truth is that Rick Grimes wasn't simply my best friend. He was the love of my life.

While to him, I was not.

Sad, painfully unoriginal, but categorically true.

Earlier, I told him that we were good, but honestly, we are not good. At least not in the way he wants us to be. Who would want to have that constant reminder of their first heartbreak ever so present? Every time I look at Rick, talk to him, I'm haunted by the humiliating memories of being a love sick fool.

Yet…I don't regret having known him. We did share great times. He became an integral part of my life—my history.

On the very first day we met, he was this random white guy, wearing a brown corduroy jacket and dark colored jeans, who'd struck up a conversation with me after school one afternoon. Walking out the front doors he simply started talking about how he was relatively new, but he had noticed me in the cafeteria before because we sat a bench apart, and that I totally had the upper hand in that squabble with that Blake guy.

"He is such man baby," he said.

And I responded, "No I was wrong. He's just a plain ole baby."

He laughed. "Wow, I thought that guy was gonna clock you, but you showed no fear. I like that." And next thing I knew he's sitting next to me on the bus.

But here's the thing…One moment he's saying something about something whilst I was staring out the window of the school bus and in the next, I turned, looked up, and...

Bam!

His blue eyes snatched my heart right out from my chest. I was a goner...for years.

I was like 'What the hell just happened?' Stunned, I lost my speech, my sense of place and time, my God given ability to think and to breathe. It was so dramatic. So unexpected. Not to mention such a delayed reaction, because come on, I had been chatting with this guy for almost thirty minutes, kind of feeling him out like, 'Yeah, this new kid is cool. We could hang.'

But in a singular, innocent instant, something spooky took place. I, I don't know how else to describe it, and I won't say magical either. No way. But Rick Grimes gave me...a look. Not a flirtatious glance or anything, no, just an open, honest look. Like sunshine.

His blue eyes melted my insides and after all these years I will never, could never, forget that feeling. It was...Okay I'm gonna say it...Magical.

Ugh! How ridiculous. But it's my truth.

Simply put, I. Fell. In-love.

I plummeted. I sank into the dark place. And I stayed there. I stayed in-love with Rick Grimes, again, for years. He came into my life, he made me happy, (so happy), and I was hopelessly, giddily in-love with my best friend.

Until one day...I simply wasn't.

One day, I climbed out from that hole. I walked out from that prison. I was free. God! It was such a relief.

Did I ever tell him? Mmm, yes and no. I never said the actual words "Hey buddy, I think you're pretty awesome. Amazing. Da bomb. You rock my world." No way, I was far too shy for that conversation to ever happen.

On the other hand, I'm pretty sure he knew I had real feelings for him.

Not from the way I stared at him, hung onto every word that slipped off his perfect lips, or was always at his beck and call. No, Rick knew he owned my trifling ass from the way I, without question, without hesitation, drove hours across state lines, compromised my integrity, and broke the law to help save his future, his stupid reputation all because he said he "needed me."

Hmph. I was such an idiot.

And what did I get in return, for my labour of love six months later?

An honest- to-God invitation to his and Lori's wedding.

I never went.