Page 44 of Caged

“For now. I haven’t found the right place yet,” I defended myself. It wasn’t like I was jobless and living in my parents’ basement. Besides, Jack had lived with Jamie. So had Meg, before she and Jack got married and bought their own place.

“Fine, you can come in.” There was a very strong, ‘but don’t touch anything vibe’ coming off her.

“Thank you.” I oozed southern charm, tipping the brim of my baseball cap.

Maxwell’s apartment looked like it belonged in a magazine, not because it was artfully decorated, it wasn’t, but because it looked so organized and clean. Like photo shoot ready clean. Like she didn’t live here clean.

Everything on her shelves was placed at matching angles. The pictures, the books, the awards and trophies. Even the boxing gloves were propped up to look like they were modeling.

There were several pictures of her with a man, who, from the looks of it, was her father. Several of her and her father wearing boxing gloves at various ages, them at her highschool and two different college graduations, and several of them together in Marine uniforms. I picked one up and examined it closer; they had the same piercing blue eyes and severe expression. Christ, even as a kid, Maxwell had a stick up her ass.

I scanned the shelves but didn’t see any pictures of her mother.I wonder why.

I couldn’t imagine living like this. The house I shared with Jamie and Emily was clean, but it looked lived in, relaxed, and welcoming. There were pictures of both families everywhere, including loved ones they’d lost. The same was true at my parent’s house.

Hell, even as the black sheep I carried pictures of my family with me in the Marines.

Unlike Darling’s shelf, there wasn’t a speck of dust on Maxwell’s. There was nothing to guide me, so I’d probably put the frame back in the wrong spot.

Does she ever relax? I’d long thought Maxwell was OCD, or at least had OCD tendencies, but now I knew.What happened to cause it? I had a buddy who’d suffered extreme PTSD and one of his symptoms was OCD behavior. PTSD wasn’t the only reason a person might need such an extreme level of control, but knowing she was an FBI profiler, I had to wonder what kind of heavy shit she’d seen.

“I’m ready.”

I stepped away from the shelf as she came into the room. Her eye twitched ever so slightly when she looked at theshelf.

“That’s much better,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t yell at me for daring to touch a photo. “You look like you’ve been helping fix our disaster of a home.”

“Thanks.” She walked over and fixed the frame.

“Your dad?”

“Yes.” She didn’t offer any more.

“Is he still in the Marines?” I asked. He was in uniform in most of the photos.

“Yes. He’s a three star general, stationed in DC.”

Impressive. I let my whistle do the talking. Until it clicked and my jaw dropped. “Wait. You’re General Maxwell’s kid?”

There weren’t a lot of three star generals in the Marine Corps, and even fewer in the Capitol, so of course I knew who he was.

“Yes. Let’s go.” She said, eliminating my chance to ask more questions.

The chime on the door alerted Adam to our presence as we walked in.

“Good morning, Adam.” Maxwell,no Charlie, greeted him.

“You remembered.” He smiled, obviously flattered by her attention.

I pretended not to care.

“Of course I did.” She flashed a toothy white smile. “Hopefully our clothes are done?” She looked down at herself and chuckled. “We’ll have more for you soon.”

“I’ll go get them,” Adam said.

When I saw a shadow in the office, indicating he was coming back, I asked, “So what do you think, want to go to Dallas this weekend and see if our luck will hold out?”

Maxwell didn’t miss a beat. “I don’t know, what if you lose this time?”

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