“My friend Caleb.”
“The one who’s getting married.”
He’d mentioned that briefly while they were working in the attic one day. He didn’t know why her remembering that felt like a big deal, especially since she was a reporter and was good with names, but it did. He turned the conversation to Dot, who even in death retained main character status. “You’re going to talk to Irina tomorrow?” he asked, filling their bowls with salad.
“I’m going to ask her about Monica’s story,” she said.
“TheHeraldstill doesn’t know what you’re doing here, do they?”
She shook her head. “To them, I’m relaxing on vacation.”
“The deal we had with Dot was that we would wait until she’s gone,” said Wes. “We’re free to do what we want with the story now.”
“We don’t have a story,” she reminded him. “We have some suppositions that make a good hypothesis and no proof that’s good enough to accuse a senator of being in the pay of organized crime.”
“It’s a strong hypothesis.” To Wes, it was clear as day. “I could talk to one of my editors at this point.”
She smiled at him. “We have very different ways of working. No, I want to wait until there’s something more solid.”
A cat jumping on the table interrupted their conversation, and once Octavia had been shooed off, they started talking about John Wilson, reexamining what they had but finding no new conclusions.
Wes busied himself with the dishes while Nadine took a turn in the conservatory. She was a clean-as-you-go type of cook, and while that wasn’t his own inclination, he’d started doing the same to even out the number of dishes they each had. It seemed unfair that on his washing nights, he had half the amount while she was stuck cleaning everything he touched on hers.
Was this fixing things? Or a usual level of care? He cursed Caleb for resurfacing these thoughts.
As he scrubbed, he thought about the next day. It made sense that Nadine wasn’t comfortable talking to her editor until there wassomething firm, given she was on thin ice thanks to the Dot Voline obituary. She would want to wait until everything was in place.
However, for Wes, it was a good time to loop in an editor. TheSpear’s philosophy was to acknowledge that a digital platform was a benefit. They had been the first in the country to start posting news stories blog-style as updates came. This way, he could give them a heads-up—no editor enjoyed being presented with a fait accompli—and get back on the radar as someone who could handle the big stories.
His goal was to land on the I-team, so it would be best to go straight to Jason. Although Rebecca would be upset to be left out of the loop and furious if she found out he was working on vacation, Wes thought the I-team editor would be more open to a story of a senator’s malfeasance. The story had become bigger than Dot. Wes could broaden it out with a deeper look at Wilson’s career and questions about corruption in the political system. He could almost see the all-employee email now.We’re pleased to announce Wes Chen will be taking a permanent role with our award-winning investigative team.
Mind you, he’d make it known this was a joint investigation with theHerald. Jason might not like that, but fair was fair. Satisfied, he finished the dishes.
Thirty-one
Nadine stretched in bed. She’d decided to go to theHeraldlater in the morning when Irina was sure to be there, and Wes had mentioned leaving early for some errands before checking in at theSpear. She had Dot’s house to herself.
Correction, to herself and the cats. Wes must have fed them before he left because Octavia was only dozing on her bed instead of meowing as if being cruelly starved. She rolled over to stroke the sleek fur as she tried to process what was happening.
It was a lot.
She thought better when she was moving, so Nadine climbed out of bed. Walking slowly through the house, she greeted Sir Latimer and Cheetah Janice as well as the smaller, more lively, and less taxidermied animals before letting herself outside. She went a bit red as she passed the grotto and hoped Dot didn’t have security cameras. Last night’s swim had been abruptly stopped and taken to the lounge chairs when she’d seen Wes dripping with water.
After putting out a wicker basket to remind herself to harvest the ripe tomatoes in the garden for the pasta Wes liked making, she took the pathpast the ornamental herb garden and around to the back. Dot’s property was deep rather than wide and depended on cunning design to reveal the space step by step. They thought they’d explored the whole place, but as she walked, Nadine caught sight of another secret path, an intricate and almost lacy design of patio stones with grass poking up through the gaps in a way that looked cultivated and not simply overgrown.
It led to a pagoda. An open-air Chinese pagoda painted in cucumber greens and pale pinks that had been hidden by the trees. Nadine imagined Dot had once covered the wooden benches circling the interior with colorful silk cushions. She took a photo, captioned itDot’s world of mysteries, and sent it to Wes, who replied with a series of wide-eyed emojis. She stepped over the tiny moon bridge—the pagoda was surrounded by a miniature moat with water lilies—and went inside, where she lay full length on the bench.
Then she proceeded to ignore the fairy-tale view, including a group of turtles sunning themselves on a log in the moat, and fretted. First up was Wes. They’d had sex, and more than once. That part was incredible. What wasn’t was the doubting, fearful part of her that suspected he had some sort of ulterior motive for getting along beyond simply getting laid. Although they’d settled their differences, it was hard to get over knowing they’d been rivals for a decade and worked for competing companies. Worse, a darker part of her wondered if, after all those years of competition, he viewed this as winning in some way, perhaps subconsciously.
This was not a healthy perspective, and it did her no good to dwell on it. Nadine sat up to mentally present the next slide in her worry deck: work.
The conversation with Wes last night had forced her into the actions-have-consequences phase of the Dot Voline project. She didn’t have a lot of grace left at theHerald, and as Lisanne pointed out, there were always journalists waiting for their chance. Good ones too, brave in the way she used to be, before she got burned. Except this story was much bigger than she anticipated, and Wilson’s response to the threat tohis reputation and career would be exponentially worse than a reader who was upset she covered a policy he disagreed with.
She left the pagoda and continued on the path, not surprised to find a small Japanese Zen garden at the end, because anything was possible when it came to Dot’s house. A few large rocks sat in the middle of clean light gray gravel washed flat from the rain. A bamboo rake leaned against a bench, and Nadine grabbed it. She used to have a miniature desk version and loved it. This would be perfect for not thinking, which was what she needed.
The gravel gave a pleasant crunch under her sandals, and despite the previous day’s rain, the garden had drained dry under the bright morning sun. She dragged the rake over to the middle rock and began to trace concentric circles around it, focusing on getting each movement perfect.
The thoughts didn’t slow. What did she want from work? Weirdly, it was her old job in the obits beat she thought about more often than the politics side. There was so much she could have done to make the obits more interesting, more reflective of the people they memorialized, in all their humanity. She thought of the collection Dot had hidden, as if to remind her that people were there to explore. But politics was politics. It was important. It was where change happened, where the big stories occurred, like this one. It was what she’d always wanted to do.
