The clerk reached under the desk and pulled out the familiar pad of branded Post-its. He licked the nib of his pen and scribbled the address down.
“What time does the carnival open?” Ledger asked.
The clerk slapped the Post-it onto a leaflet and pushed both over the counter.
“Thanks,” Ledger said dryly.
The carnival opened at dusk. The newspaper offices were… somewhere off Hagan. Ledger supposed he could figure out the rest of the scrawl when he got there. He tucked both bits of paper into his pocket.
On his way out, he looked to see if his usual breakfast companion was at her table. There was no sign of her yet. He must have beaten her down for once. Or maybe she’d checked out.
Lucky her.
TheSutton Reporterwas tucked into a narrow office building over a liquor store. Doug Fairglass was the editor, and he’d made time to talk to Ledger. That’s what he said, anyhow. It didn’t seem like there was a lot else to demand his attention.
Fairglass was a heavyset man in his twenties, whose nicotine-stain-colored shirt and wrinkled black tie made him look like he should be older. He was also a bit of a fan.
“I tried to get an interview with your dad when I heard he was coming back home,” Fairglass said as he stuck two mugs of coffee grounds and water in the small microwave in the corner of the office. “I never heard back. When I heard you’d be in town, I hoped I’d get a chance to speak to you.”
Ledger watched the mugs as they revolved on the turntable. The cartoon cats on the front of both were inexplicably off-putting. “Then I’m glad to oblige,” Ledger said. “But I came here to ask you for a favor.”
Fairglass stopped halfway through pulling creamer and sugar out of a drawer. He frowned at Ledger.
“If this is about my book,” he said, “I understand that it’s a sensitive topic for your family, but the public’s right to know is—”
“No,” Ledger interrupted. His voice sounded sharper than he’d meant it to. He took a second to modulate it before he went on. “Write what you want. It’s nothing to do with me.”
“You’re going to be in it.”
Ledger went to fiddle with the cuffs of his shirt, only to be reminded he was down to T-shirts. He adjusted the watch on his wrist instead.
“No offense,” he said, “I’ll probably not read it.”
The microwave dinged. Fairglass popped the door open and lifted the mugs out, swearing under his breath as the handles stung his fingers. He set them down on the table and talked over his shoulder as he gave both mugs a good stir.
“I can understand that. You were old enough that a lot of people do think you should share the blame for not stopping Bell.” The spoon clinked off the side of one of the mugs as Fairglass gave it a tap. “And now Bell’s dead, so you’re the only person they can be angry at.”
“I do have a sister.”
“She doesn’t look like him,” Fairglass said with a shrug. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Just creamer.”
“I drink it black,” Fairglass said. “Gotta look the part, don’t you?”
He tipped a splash of cream into one cup and turned around to hand it to Ledger. The cup was still hot enough to be uncomfortable to hold. Ledger balanced it on his knee and watched clots of creamer float sullenly around the edges of the cup.
“Of course,” Fairglass said as he retreated behind his side of the desk, “if you had a chance to tell your side, I’m sure you’d come out a lot more sympathetic.”
That was the last thing Ledger cared about. He had to swallow that knee-jerk response in favor of a more mealy-mouthed, “I’ll think about it. Once I’ve finished my business in town.”
Fairglass hurried a gulp of coffee and sat forward, his expression interested. “I’ve no idea how I could help Bell Conroy’s son,” he said. “But go ahead.”
Greed sparkled in Fairglass’s dull brown eyes, and Ledger wondered if this was going to bite him in the ass. Bell Conroy’s son knew better than to stick his neck out and draw attention to himself. The memory of cheap cotton rough around his throat was still sharp enough to feel like a warning.
Except Ledger wasn’t that boy anymore, he reminded himself. This wasn’t a risk he wanted to take, but he needed to. Time was running out, and better exposed than dead.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a thick envelope.
