Salem narrows her eyes at me. “Considering it?”
If my molars survive this day—this argument—it will be a miracle.
“I’m certain I don’t know Jess as well as you do. But I’m also certain she wouldn’t appreciate someone—even someone she’sinvolvedwith—misrepresenting her wishes.”
I clench my fist and tap it lightly on the table. Fighting with Salem is like fighting with one of my sisters. It’s as if someone drew her a map to all my sore spots.
“I don’t want you to do it. The interview with her, I mean. Not when you’re acting this way. She doesn’t deserve to have you come at her the way you went at Dennis Kirtenour.”
The way you’re going at me.
“You can’t deny that you’re different,” I add. “That something’s changed since you went home. Did something else happen? With Pen, or with Patrick?”
For the first time since this conversation started, I can see something in Salem falter. It’s tiny, fleeting. But if I was the sort of person who kept a map of her sore spots, I’d be drawing anX.
She clears her throat and pokes at the limes in her drink.
“What’s happened is that my daughter is still injured, and Lynton Baltimore is probably dead. If I seem impatient it’s because I am. I want this over with.”
I shake my head. “I don’t believe you.”
She shrugs again. “Believe what you want. Look, we’ve gotten what we can out of Ashley Maxwell. What we need now is all the information we can get about Charlotte, who apparently is going to be a bigger part of this story than we thought. If you don’t want me to do the interview with Jess, fine. You do it, then. I’ll handle the recording. At least that way I’ll be able to trust it gets done.”
“I can’t,” I say, automatically.
But when she looks at me, I know she’s only waiting for me to realize the corner I’ve backed myself into. I’ve succeeded in earning Jess’s trust; I’ve succeeded in getting her to agree to talk. I think I’m too close to do it myself, but I also think Salem will go too far.
I do it, or Salem does it.
Because either way, Jess has decided she has something to say, and it wouldn’t be right to stop her.
I take a deep breath.
“Salem, you need to know. If she agrees to this, to me doing this, I’m not going to push her. Not even once, no matter what. I’m not going to hurt her.”
For a long time, she doesn’t say anything. I’m not looking at her, but I figure she’s probably working up to another metaphorical roundhouse kick to my face. I haven’t even mentioned her promise to produce my podcast about Cope, and now I can’t bring myself to. That promise must’ve been made a million years ago; that podcast must be a million years away.
But then Salem sets a hand on my forearm, and when I meet her eyes, there’s no fight there.
“Adam,” she says, using my first name for the first time in our entire history. “Trust someone who’s been there. If anyone gets hurt by this, it’ll be you.”
Chapter 23
Adam Hawkins:You’re comfortable?
Jess Greene:Yeah, I’m good. This is fine.
Hawkins:Do you need—
Salem Durant:You’ve got water here, Jess.
Greene:Thanks.
Tegan Caulfield:::dramatic snoring noise::
:: indistinct shuffling, quiet laughter::
Hawkins:::clears throat:: Why don’t you start by telling us about what you remember from the time right before your mother left.
