She’d done plenty of crazy things in her stint as a journalist, but she wouldn’t be packing her suitcase for this Mr. Hough. Nor would she go with him to some undisclosed location in order to meet a stranger who seemed certifiable, even if he promised her an interview.
The money was just a ploy. A second carrot dangling on the stick, probably luring her right over the edge of a cliff.
She didn’t know what these men wanted, but she was certain of one thing—she would be spending her weekend trying to track down someone to interview for her story on the Rickers, not searching for the friend Mr. Knight lost seventy-plus years ago.
CHAPTER 3
_____
“You have to go with him,” Chandler Parr insisted, leaning back against the L-shaped desk in Quenby’s ten-by-ten cube of an office. Her best friend and boss wore a pear-colored blazer and black trousers. Between her fingers, Chandler clutched an unlit cigarette that doubled as a baton.
Smoking wasn’t allowed in their building—and Chandler was trying to quit anyway—but she liked to cling to a Kent Blue. To combat stress, she said.
Unbeknownst to her, the staff referred to Chandler’s cigarette as her “dummy.” Pacifier. And now, thanks to Mr. Hough, the word unbeknownst was stuck in Quenby’s head.
“I’m not packing a suitcase and leaving London with a man I don’t know,” Quenby shot back, drumming her three-inch heels on the floor. “Especially one who won’t tell me where we’re going.”
She’d thought Chandler would be amused by Mr. Hough’s early morning call, but instead her boss was appalled that Quenby had turned down his request to meet Mr. Knight. Like Quenby was crazy for not driving away with a stranger.
“Rubbish,” Chandler said. “You may not know Mr. Hough, but that doesn’t mean he’s dangerous.”
“Nor does it mean he’s safe.”
“Just because your mum told you not to talk to strangers . . . ,” Chandler started. Then she stopped herself, her smile falling. “Oh, Quenby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Quenby brushed away the apology with a swat of her hand. “I know you didn’t.”
And this was precisely why Quenby didn’t tell people about her mother. She didn’t want them stumbling over apologies when it wasn’t their fault. Chandler only knew that Quenby’s mother hadn’t wanted to be a mom.
Chandler nudged her aside and clicked the mouse beside her computer. “Type in your password,” Chandler said, her boss voice prevailing.
Scrivener, Quenby typed. A medieval reminder that her job was to create new stories, not regurgitate ones that had already been told.
Chandler usurped the keyboard controls to search Google for Lucas Hough, and she found him at the law office of Hough and Associates. According to the firm’s website, the senior Mr. Hough had been practicing law in London for forty years. The junior Hough probably hadn’t struggled a day in his life, slipping easily into the role his family already carved out for him.
Quenby despised the bitterness that welled inside her. She should be pleased for his success, not aggravated. If only Mr. Hough hadn’t been so arrogant on the phone.
Another search, and Chandler selected an image from the faces that filled the screen. A man with wavy brown hair and brown eyes, wearing a gray bomber jacket and jeans. In his smile Quenby could almost hear his laughter. The thought annoyed her even more.
Chandler tapped her cigarette on the screen. “Let me introduce you properly to Lucas Hough, one of the most eligible bachelors in London.”
Quenby turned away from the screen. This Mr. Hough wasn’t like one of the friends her boss attempted to set her up with. Chandler had never even met this man. “He may look nice enough, but it doesn’t mean he’s safe.” She didn’t need a mother to explain that to her.
Chandler sighed. “Mr. Hough is a prominent attorney.”
“Defending the law doesn’t mean he obeys it.”
“He’s not going to kidnap a reporter,” Chandler said, waving the cigarette back and forth in front of Quenby’s face. “Go with him. I’ll track you on my phone.”
“A lot of good that will do if I end up in the Thames.”
Chandler pushed away from the desk. “You might get a good story out of it.”
Quenby straightened her keyboard and mouse pad. “Speaking of stories . . .” She opened the e-mail from Mrs. McMann and let Chandler read it.
Chandler stuck the cigarette between her lips. “You have more contacts than her, right?”
“I’m e-mailing her grandchildren this morning, and I’ve requested more files from the War Office. They’ll be transferred to the archives on Tuesday.”
The cigarette shook. “Evan Graham is not a patient man.”
“I’m well aware of that.” He had personally called Quenby out twice in their editorial meetings this year to say she needed to dig deeper. Find the stories no one else was telling.
“Go talk to this Daniel Knight,” Chandler said as if she were scrounging for crumbs under the fridge. Then she glanced at her watch. “Let’s not mention the fate of your article to the team yet. You’ll have a break soon enough.”