Liz didn’t look convinced, but at least the fine lines of tension were gone from her face and her hands weren’t white-knuckled around her cup. “Is that what you’re doing?” Liz asked, looking at Maggie sideways. “Trying to solve Patrick’s murder?”
“You know I can’t tell you anything.”
Liz shrugged, looking somehow smaller. “I wish I could do something, too. I feel helpless.”
“We all do.”
Liz sighed and then pasted on a counterfeit smile. “I guess I should leave things to the professionals.”
Maggie nodded. “Please do.”
They sipped their coffees in quiet for a moment. Each of them staring out different windows. This was a good Starbucks. Lots of view to be had. Lots of staring out windows to be done.
“I was surprised when you said you were going back undercover,” Liz finally said and Maggie braced herself for the inevitable question. “We all were.”
“It’s my job,” Maggie said.
“Yeah, the job you were going to quit.”
“Liz—”
“What about law school?”
Maggie swallowed the bitter coffee and stood to find a sugar packet and to avoid the remainder of this conversation. “What about it?” she asked over her shoulder, casually, as if they were talking about nothing important.
Liz shook her head when Maggie got back to the table, stack of sugar packets in hand. Maybe the ulcers would like the gut-rotting caffeine sweetened.
“Don’t pretend like this isn’t a big deal.”
“It isn’t.” Maggie lied.
“Pepperdine Law is a big deal. You’ve wanted to be a lawyer since you were a kid—”
“Yeah, and I think Patrick wanted to have children and watch them grow up,” Maggie snapped. Then she felt as though she’d just kicked a poodle. “I just deferred. I can go later.”
“Later when?” Liz asked.
“Later, later. This is hardly worth discussing right now.”
“Patrick would want you to be happy,” Liz said.
Maggie felt the hot lump of emotion assemble in her throat. She coughed and took a sip of her now-way-too-sweet coffee.
“Mags—”
Maggie pushed the cup away. “I can’t talk about this now.”
“You are just like Dad,” Liz said.
Maggie nodded. So she’d been told most of her life. Recently she’d stopped pretending it was a compliment.
“Just because he wanted a kid in the Bureau didn’t mean it had to be you.”
“Were you going to sign up?” Maggie asked, laughing at her sister. Liz was a gifted magazine stylist—about as far away from special agent as one could get.
“None of us had to sign up. That was Dad’s deal. You didn’t have to take on the job. And moreover you should be able to leave it when you want to.”
“I don’t want to just yet.” Maggie shrugged as if it were that simple. And it was, mostly.
“That wasn’t your story seven months ago.”
“Things changed, Liz. I can’t talk about this now. Let it go.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
They both stared out the windows again.
“Are you okay? Emergency over?” Maggie asked, her temper slightly cooler thanks to the rolling waves on the other side of the highway.
Liz nodded, pulling her gaze back to Maggie.
“Something is wrong with Dan, but you’re right, I don’t think it’s another woman.” The shadows that lingered under her sister’s bright eyes indicated something serious was amiss in her sister’s stylized life. Some detail was not going as planned and Maggie did feel bad about that, but she had her own amiss details to sort out.
“It’s only been six months, Liz. Dan lost his best friend.”
Liz nodded, her brown hair gleaming in the low light. Maggie wondered if it was genetics or expensive hair products that created such a shine. Maggie’s hair usually looked like a springer spaniel’s coat—after he’d chased some animal into a hole.
“Okay, I gotta go.” Maggie stood. “No emergencies unless there’s blood next time.”
Liz smiled. “Okay.”
Maggie leaned down and kissed her sister’s head and grabbed her coat.
“Oh, hey, can I borrow some movies? Dan’s been working late and there’s nothing but reality TV on in the summer.” Liz assembled herself to go, too. Flipping her hair and slinging her bag over her shoulder. She looked like a perfume commercial.
Maggie nodded; her sister had her own key to Maggie’s apartment. “Just put them back when you’re done.” It was a useless request. Chances were Maggie would never see whatever movies Liz borrowed again.
“Do you have something with Hugh Grant? I feel like something Hugh Grant-y.”
“Third row down on the bookcase. I’ve got them all.” Truth be told Maggie was often in the mood for something Hugh Grant-y.
“Thanks, Mags,” Liz said. Maggie heard a lot of gratitude in those two words.
“No problem.”
Someone had to handle the emergencies, keep the family together, bring murderers to justice and lend the Hugh Grant movies when they were desired.
Once again, Maggie was the woman for the job.
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