“My apologies,” he replied. “Most people would inquire as to who wanted to meet with them before they asked about details.”
She glanced at the microwave clock. The editorial meeting started in an hour. “I believe I can decipher both the who and why in one shot.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Hough said. “My client is Daniel Knight.”
He said Daniel Knight like she should know the name, but she didn’t recall contacting anyone with the last name of Knight for any of her recent articles.
“You still haven’t explained why your client wants to meet with me.”
“Mr. Knight would like to hire you.”
She reached for her mug but didn’t take a sip. “He wants me to write a story?”
“No,” Mr. Hough said. “He wants you to find someone.”
She sighed. “Then your client should hire a detective.”
“He already has, but none of the investigators were able to find this person for him.”
Her mug clasped in her hand, she moved down the narrow hallway, into her bedroom. A stray pair of jeans hung off the side of a woven basket at the end of her bed, and she stuffed them back inside. Laundry would be the first order of business over the weekend. “I’m a writer, Mr. Hough. I find people so I can tell their stories.”
“This story is quite remarkable, but Mr. Knight wants to hire you as a researcher instead of a reporter.”
She set her mug on top of a book on her nightstand and pulled a pair of clean jeans and a white blouse from the wardrobe, spreading her clothes across the end of the bed. Then she arranged her slippers neatly underneath.
Mr. Hough’s secrecy was maddening, but she couldn’t resist a good story and had a feeling this man knew it.
“Who exactly is Mr. Knight looking for?” she asked.
“Someone he lost.”
Maddening, intriguing, and irritating—she mentally added the word to the list. “A child?”
“No.” He paused. “His best friend.”
Quenby sat down on the bed and leaned back against the headboard. Her floor trembled as the Tube ran its morning course underground. “When did he lose this friend?”
“Seventy-five years ago.”
She groaned. “This is crazy.”
“Not crazy,” he clipped. “Perhaps unusual, but not crazy.”
Her head was beginning to ache. If only she could go back to bed and start this day again.
“I’m simply the messenger, Miss Vaughn. My client has done his homework, and he’s decided that you are the person he wants to locate his friend.”
“Because I’m a journalist?”
“His reasoning is unbeknownst to me.”
This time she laughed. “Unbeknownst?”
“I’m sorry,” he said without sounding the least bit. “I assumed you understood the queen’s English.”
She leaned forward, clenching the phone in her hand. He might think his teasing hilarious, but she had no time for this.
“Assuming can be a detriment in both of our professions,” she replied. “But then again, I’ve been assuming that you and your client know I have a full-time position as a journalist.”
She heard the clicking of a keyboard on the other end. “Mr. Knight will pay you a significant amount of money if you decide to work for him.”
“I’m not motivated by money, Mr. Hough.”
“Miss Vaughn,” he said with a sigh, “everyone is motivated by money.”
She massaged her temples, tiny circles to clear her mind. He was pushing too hard now, and she didn’t respond well to manipulation. Or the condescending tone of his voice. “I can’t take the time off work to help your client.”
“Before you decide, you should listen to his story.”
It was like dangling a sweet carrot in front of her, enticing her to follow. She should tell him no, but perhaps she could mine a newsworthy story over the weekend, something to appease Chandler until the Ricker article was complete. “I can meet your client tomorrow morning at Pret’s in Camden Market—”
“I’m afraid that won’t work.”
She drummed her fingers on the bedspread. “I suppose you already have a plan.”
A phone buzzed in the background. “I’ll fetch you in the morning at seven sharp, in front of your building.”
“Wait—” She moved her feet back over the edge of her bed, onto the rug. “How do you know where I live?”
His laugh grated on her skin, like a pumice stone sloughing away her nerves. If he laughed one more time, she was going to throw him and his queen’s English into the laundry basket.
She nudged the lid of the basket with her toe instead and watched it fall over the pile of dirty clothes. For some reason it made her feel better to hide it even though no one could see the laundry but her. “I can arrange for my own ride.”
“Pack a suitcase,” he instructed. Then he disconnected the call.
Quenby stared down at the screen in her hand, the time staring back at her. 7:32 a.m.