He stares at me and shakes his head. “I have no idea. I mean, maybe, if she was out there trying to interview him and forgot her own notebook. Maybe she borrowed one?”
When he asks if he can have it, I tell him that I’m going to have it analyzed and it’s best not to mess with it.
“And Palmer Edmonds?” I ask about Paxton’s ex-fiancée’s father, who met with Clarissa the morning she drowned. “You still can’t get him to chat with us? Even for Clarissa’s sake?”
Paxton shakes his head. “I’ve left messages and even gone to his house. He refuses to call me back or see me.”
I’m about to wrap things up with Paxton when I see a white Chevy Equinox with a single driver.
Jeremy. Dammit. He’s a good twenty minutes early. The last thing I want is for him to know anything about my clients.
Jeremy misses the entrance to the lot, so he drives to the end of the road to swing back around. I rush Paxton off, telling him I’ll be in touch. I stand outside my car as Paxton drives away, rechecking my gun—even though I know it’s exactly where I put it before he arrived—when Jeremy pulls in.
He parks next to me, where Paxton had parked. His shaggy hair is tucked behind his ears. He’s wearing a button-down, clay-colored shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing tanned arms and confirming my memory that he has no tattoo of an upside-downR.
He grins as he approaches. “Who was that?” he asks.
“None of your concern.”
“One of your cases?”
“I can repeat those four words if you didn’t hear them well enough.”
“So it was one of your cases.”
“And if you keep prying, I can go back to my main job of simultaneously lying low and finding out who is trying to hunt me down while the clock ticks down to my own personal doomsday.”
“Easy,” he says. “Easy, easy.”
“Nothing about this is that.”
“Understood.”
“Then leave shit alone when I ask, okay?”
“Got it,” he says. “By the way, nice hat,” he offers with a flash of a smile.
My cheeks heat up. I’m embarrassed that this man who I’m not sure I even trust yet has this kind of pull on me. “Not very effective, though. Which is why we’re here instead of the café.”
“Ah, I see. Too many gawkers.”
“You’ve been camping?” I ask.
“And hiking,” he says. “Sorry if I’m a little scruffy. Wasn’t expecting a call from you.” He leans one sinewy arm on the top of my car. “What brings you my way?”
My way?Like he owns Montana and the glorious Glacier National Park?
“I read your article.”
He waits.
“It’s good. Congratulations on the awards. Especially the National Magazine Award. Impressive.”
“Thank you. Does this mean you’re going to let me interview you?”
“I’m still mulling over the idea.”
It’s a lie.
