Disclaimer: I don't own Red Eye. Writing for fun.
.-.-.-.-.
Lisa had half expected to see him when she found her seat on the plane. Instead, she sat beside a sleepy older man who spent most of the time snoring while she gazed out the window at the rising sun. By the time she arrived in Miami, it was mid-morning. She moved through the airport in a daze, not quite trusting that she'd actually gotten there. Her father's death was still too soon for it to be real to her, and she kept checking her cell for any missed calls, as if his ring would sound at any moment.
The humidity hit her as she stepped outside just as a wave of grief overcame her. Lisa hailed a cab and tossed her suitcase and carryon in through the back door. She followed them, collapsing gratefully on the worn bench seat and its fake leather covering. "The Lux Atlantic," she managed to get out before she dissolved into tears. The cabbie pretended not to notice, and drove on.
It was a thirty minute drive, with traffic, so Lisa had plenty of time to regain her composure. Besides, even if her eyes were red from crying, who could blame her? She paid the driver, retrieved her luggage, and took a deep breath. The Lux Atlantic Hotel towered over her, all glass and curves. She had never stayed there as a guest; whenever she came home, she stayed with her father. Right now, though, his house was cordoned off by the police, and even if they hadn't done that, she could not bring herself to go there just yet. While she waited for her mother to arrive from Texas, she'd decided, she would stay in luxury, in the only remaining familiar place in all of Miami.
Lisa mentally kicked herself into a smile, and went in.
.-.-.-.-.
Bereavement for a parent, according to Keefe, was a month. He had insisted after seeing what a workaholic Lisa could be, and he liked her too much to let her drown herself in work too early. Lisa had tried to argue, but he would not accept her back in his office until December, or longer if need be. As it was, he had noted sympathetically, she would thank him when she had time to reflect with her family over Thanksgiving.
So she went through the motions of planning the funeral, contacting her remaining, scattered family, attending the wake, the service, the burial. At one point, as she stood steadying her crying mother and the minister intoned a heartfelt eulogy over the grave, she caught a glimpse of a familiar face across the crowd of mourners, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses the only barrier between the world and his far-too-familiar eyes.
She had expected to feel anger, expected to have to wrestle with the fury she'd held tightly controlled all this time, but when she saw his expression…there was real sadness, real regret. He looked troubled, genuinely sorry as he gazed down at the rich mahogany of Joe Reisert's coffin. Then he looked up, perhaps sensing her study, and suddenly his confident mask dropped back into place, the faint insolent twist to his lips, the heavy-lidded perusal she remembered with utter clarity. He inclined his head to her, acknowledging her, then turned and strolled away, hands in his pockets.
Lisa might have hated him, except for the naked emotion she'd glimpsed before he saw her. It gave her pause and made her stop to think that perhaps he was telling the truth, that he'd had nothing to do with the murder of the most important person in her life.
Her mother grasped her hand. "Lisa," she said, catching her daughter's attention, "Let's go. The service is over."
The last word came out querulously, and Lisa returned her thoughts to the immediate situation. "Okay," she murmured, grasping her mother's thin shoulder tightly, "We'll get something to eat."
She cast one final glance over her shoulder at the flower-strewn casket, the file of Joe's friends and family, then past even them to where Jackson had gone. He had disappeared once again. Lisa shook her head and leaned on her mother, who leaned on her, and they walked away from Joe for the last time.
.-.-.-.-.
Her mother had to leave two days later, only after extracting a promise from Lisa that they would spend Thanksgiving together. Lisa got the feeling that her parents had never truly stopped loving each other, though they had been unable to live under the same roof for years. She wondered what it was like, to feel so strongly for someone that you understood you could never coexist.
It hit her that she did know to an extent, though her still-grieving heart was unwilling to examine the idea further. First, she had to get back to normal, and then she would call Jackson to find out just what he knew, and why the hell he would offer to help her.
.-.-.-.-.
A week after the funeral, Jackson called her. "I got tired of waiting," he said without preamble, interrupting her as usual as she tried to mumble a greeting.
She was still in bed, drained, tired from tossing all night. "I was going to call you when I was ready," she said peevishly, tucking the sheet around her where she half-sat up, propped by the overstuffed pillows. The clock at her bedside read ten fifteen a.m.
He sighed. The wheeze was less pronounced this time. "You don't have the luxury of lounging around. You'll have to make some decisions very soon, and the more you dally, the fewer your choices become." He sounded annoyed. "I won't offer again."
"All right," she snapped. "Where?"
She could almost hear the smirk. "Starbucks, on the corner across from the hotel?"
"Sure." The word came out dead, dull. "I'll be there in half an hour."
He hung up without a goodbye. Lisa glared at the phone, then let her arm drop to the coverlet. She had just agreed to meet with the one person who had once tried to destroy her life, to destroy her.
The world was a strange place. She flung the covers back and hopped out of bed. It would take five minutes from her door to Starbucks; she had twenty-five minutes to make herself presentable.
It wouldn't do to meet him looking like she'd fallen apart.
