CHAPTER 13
A couple of weeks passed by before Reagan stopped having thoughts about the nausea she had felt that day at lunch. They hadn’t revisited what happened, nor had Jackson mentioned his coworker since that day. She planned to act as if it had never happened at all.
The trees hadn’t quite filled with leaves yet, though the buds had given them a red hue. Daffodils and tulips painted Newbrook with color, something the town desperately needed after the cold, gray winter. Reagan adored the spring flowers. Her urge to create brush strokes on canvas escalated. The increased artistic activity had resulted in an ever-growing stock of paintings in her apartment.
“You’re gonna run out of room,” Jackson joked. “Look at you, creating all this beautiful art.”
Reagan stood in the bathroom, in
