Brent sat down and tilted his head at Nadine. “I believe you know Nadine Barbault?”
“We know each other.” The grit in Nadine’s voice said she hadn’t expected Wes to be at the meeting either. Wes beamed at her, and she snapped her head away so fast her ponytail whipped around to hit her in the face. He took his chair as she pulled her hair out of her lip gloss.
“Good, good.” Brent smiled at them. “I’m pleased to meet you. I always wanted to be a journalist.”
Wes heard that a lot. “What happened?”
Brent lifted one shoulder, his face wry. “I’m a terrible writer, to be honest.” He brightened. “You know what you should look into? Pylons.”
“Pylons?” said Nadine blankly.
Brent waved his hand. “You know, traffic cones? How many times have you driven down the highway and seen kilometers of orange cones but no construction? I bet there’s some kickback scheme there.”
Had Wes wandered into a different reality? “You think organized crime is behind road pylons?” he asked.
Brent looked earnest. “You never know, do you?”
“I guess not,” Nadine said.
Wes nodded in agreement, not sure what answer to give.
That was apparently enough for Brent. “That’s what I’d look into if I owned a media company. Well, let’s get down to it. I’m here on behalf of my aunt, Dot Voline.” Brent folded his hands on the table and looked at them. “She says you’ve been coming by the house.”
“Yes,” said Nadine before Wes could answer.
“My aunt rarely gives interviews,” Brent said.
“I know.” Wes readied himself for the back-off warning.
“Her rule is that everything she needs to say finds its way into a book, and she can’t be expected to explain it to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who refuse to use their own brains.”
“Okay,” said Wes. That definitely sounded like the woman who had been yelling at him over the intercom.
“That has changed. She’s willing to speak to you.”
Wes saw Nadine’s surprise. “Both of us?” she asked. “We work for different organizations.”
Brent smiled and sipped his drink, so milky it was the color of eggshells. “My aunt would say that’s your problem. This is her offer. The obituary forced her to think about her mortality and legacy. She wants to talk to you ‘so those deathmongers can get the damn story right.’” He gave them a cheerful smile. “Direct quote.”
“Then there is a story.” Wes slid his hands to his lap so Brent couldn’t tell how eager he was. He glanced at Nadine, who looked as cool and collected as she always did when working. Wes’s phone buzzed, and he silenced it. It would be his mother again, and although he’d pay later for ignoring her, he needed to concentrate.
“I’m not sure about a story,” said Brent. “All I know is she said she had a promise to keep. She also gave me some rules.”
“What are they?” Wes asked. “Obviously they have to work within our ethical standards.” When didmybecomeour? Were he and Nadine a team? No. It was simply a practical linguistic shortcut.
“They’re reasonable.” Brent took a long sip of his drink. “The first, as I said, is she’ll only deal with the two of you together. Second, you can’t tell anyone you’re doing this. Finally, you may not publish, allude to, or speak about what you learn until she’s dead.”
“That might be years,” Wes said. He felt Nadine’s disgust at his tactlessness.
“It might be.” Brent looked at his hands. “But probably not.”
“I agree,” said Nadine promptly.
Wes took a breath. “Sorry, can you give us a moment, Brent?”
“Sure.” He drained his cup. “I’ll be right back.”
Wes waited until Brent was safely ensconced in the washroom, which was a closet off the main space. It irritated him that Nadine looked unperturbed about this offer. He wanted to break through that facade to the real Nadine, the one who had almost strangled him in front of Voline’s gate.
