“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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