happens.”
“How can anything happen,” Debrah countered, “when the heroine is stashed away in a hole in the ground.”
Something could happen, Reed thought, if there were vultures circling the mouth of the pit. Pushing away all thoughts of her dream, she said, “I liked it. I like the way she thinks about life while she’s down there. She’s completely separated from normal life, but she imagines a normal life for herself, every day.”
“Not me,” Tom Sweeney disagreed. “I like more action.” Ray Morrissey nodded agreement.
Link hadn’t read the book yet, so he said nothing. But Reed saw him shoot Rain a look of hostility when Rain spoke.
They closed the meeting early and hiked across campus to Burgers Etc. for what Jude called, “Sustenance before I sleep.”
In the restaurant, they were being silly, goofing off, when Link once again asked Rain about Carl Nordstrum, ignoring Reed’s obvious irritation when the name was mentioned.
Rain, too, was annoyed. “I’ve never understood,” he said coldly, “why everyone thinks I would know my mother’s business. It’s not as if we sit around all day talking. She spends most of her time in her office, lost in her work. If you want to know something about her business, ask her.”
So, on Thursday, because Reed knew Link wasn’t going to let go of the subject, she worked up her courage and asked the author about Carl Nordstrum.
The author’s lips tightened. “One day, out of the blue, he called to say he wasn’t coming in. That he was leaving school. Out of the blue. I had no idea he was thinking of leaving.” She shook her head, the graying mass of hair swinging across her shoulders. “It’s just as well. I know he was stealing from me. You just never know who you can trust, do you?”
She said nothing about Reed’s snooping. She seemed to have forgotten the entire episode.
Then she disappeared into her office again, telling Reed to leave at four.
When Reed had finished her work, her resolve about no more snooping began to dwindle. Why had she taken this job, anyway? To get close to a famous author, to learn the tricks of the writing trade, to find out how McCoy dug into the “dark side” of characters. None of that was happening. She was just a glorified errand-person, answering letters and the telephone—when it worked. If Carl and the other assistants had quit, it probably had nothing to do with the sinister rumors. They’d probably left from sheer boredom.
And here, sitting on either side of her, were drawers crammed full of fascinating notes and rough drafts and maybe letters from McCoy’s publisher with information about the publishing process itself.
A treasure trove of information, within easy reach.
Unlocked.
If she wasn’t going to learn anything, this job was a waste of time. She could be on campus having fun instead of sitting in this cold, gloomy room pecking away at an ancient typewriter. And if she wasn’t going to learn anything, why should she care if McCoy caught her snooping and fired her?
McCoy was safely in her office. The cover was on the bird cage, so Poe couldn’t spy on her and shriek an alert, which Reed didn’t doubt for a second he would do. And in the past two days, the author hadn’t emerged from her office once, not even for a few minutes.
Slowly, carefully, Reed placed her fingers around the brass handle on the bottom left desk drawer and slowly, carefully, pulled it open.
A soft breath of disappointment slid from between her lips.
The drawer was empty.
The manuscripts had been removed.
McCoy had been telling the truth when she’d said she didn’t trust anyone.
Closing that drawer, Reed opened all of the other drawers, slowly, quietly, one at a time. It took her only a few seconds to realize that nothing in them was of any importance. Old letters, all addressed in longhand, probably from friends or fans. No journals or diaries that might have told Reed something about the author and how
“How can anything happen,” Debrah countered, “when the heroine is stashed away in a hole in the ground.”
Something could happen, Reed thought, if there were vultures circling the mouth of the pit. Pushing away all thoughts of her dream, she said, “I liked it. I like the way she thinks about life while she’s down there. She’s completely separated from normal life, but she imagines a normal life for herself, every day.”
“Not me,” Tom Sweeney disagreed. “I like more action.” Ray Morrissey nodded agreement.
Link hadn’t read the book yet, so he said nothing. But Reed saw him shoot Rain a look of hostility when Rain spoke.
They closed the meeting early and hiked across campus to Burgers Etc. for what Jude called, “Sustenance before I sleep.”
In the restaurant, they were being silly, goofing off, when Link once again asked Rain about Carl Nordstrum, ignoring Reed’s obvious irritation when the name was mentioned.
Rain, too, was annoyed. “I’ve never understood,” he said coldly, “why everyone thinks I would know my mother’s business. It’s not as if we sit around all day talking. She spends most of her time in her office, lost in her work. If you want to know something about her business, ask her.”
So, on Thursday, because Reed knew Link wasn’t going to let go of the subject, she worked up her courage and asked the author about Carl Nordstrum.
The author’s lips tightened. “One day, out of the blue, he called to say he wasn’t coming in. That he was leaving school. Out of the blue. I had no idea he was thinking of leaving.” She shook her head, the graying mass of hair swinging across her shoulders. “It’s just as well. I know he was stealing from me. You just never know who you can trust, do you?”
She said nothing about Reed’s snooping. She seemed to have forgotten the entire episode.
Then she disappeared into her office again, telling Reed to leave at four.
When Reed had finished her work, her resolve about no more snooping began to dwindle. Why had she taken this job, anyway? To get close to a famous author, to learn the tricks of the writing trade, to find out how McCoy dug into the “dark side” of characters. None of that was happening. She was just a glorified errand-person, answering letters and the telephone—when it worked. If Carl and the other assistants had quit, it probably had nothing to do with the sinister rumors. They’d probably left from sheer boredom.
And here, sitting on either side of her, were drawers crammed full of fascinating notes and rough drafts and maybe letters from McCoy’s publisher with information about the publishing process itself.
A treasure trove of information, within easy reach.
Unlocked.
If she wasn’t going to learn anything, this job was a waste of time. She could be on campus having fun instead of sitting in this cold, gloomy room pecking away at an ancient typewriter. And if she wasn’t going to learn anything, why should she care if McCoy caught her snooping and fired her?
McCoy was safely in her office. The cover was on the bird cage, so Poe couldn’t spy on her and shriek an alert, which Reed didn’t doubt for a second he would do. And in the past two days, the author hadn’t emerged from her office once, not even for a few minutes.
Slowly, carefully, Reed placed her fingers around the brass handle on the bottom left desk drawer and slowly, carefully, pulled it open.
A soft breath of disappointment slid from between her lips.
The drawer was empty.
The manuscripts had been removed.
McCoy had been telling the truth when she’d said she didn’t trust anyone.
Closing that drawer, Reed opened all of the other drawers, slowly, quietly, one at a time. It took her only a few seconds to realize that nothing in them was of any importance. Old letters, all addressed in longhand, probably from friends or fans. No journals or diaries that might have told Reed something about the author and how
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