Page 16 of Beau and the Beast

"Listen, I'm sorry my brother hacked into your security system," Beau said. "He needed the money and he thought it would be harmless. He actually thinks that $50,000 isn't that much to pay for people like you—"

"It's not," Geoffrey said.

"Right, but. He's not going to do it again. He's harmless and I watched him—he wrote over the files. The stuff I had in the envelope is the only proof that's out there of anything weird going on up here. You can let me go and—"

"We really can't," Violet said.

"I'm face blind," Beau said, sounding nervous, obviously lying. "Even if someone wanted me to describe you all, I wouldn't be able to do it."

"That's not it," Violet said. "We need your help, Beau."

* * *

These people were absolutely outof their minds.

They looked like a corporate lineup from hell, every one of them dressed in expensive clothes. There were four men and one woman, their ages ranging from late thirties to early sixties as far as Beau could tell.

There was something... off about them.

Every one of them was incredibly pale, for starters, but maybe that wasn't unusual for people who worked in an office. But why were they gathered in a penthouse? None of them had wedding rings and from looking at them, it didn't seem like any of them could possibly be biologically related.

What thehellhad Noah stumbled on? Some sort of cult?

"You're a writer, correct?" the woman asked.

Beau nodded. "I'm a reporter for The New Whitby Ledger," he said. "So, just for the record, I understand confidentiality. I'm very discreet. I'd be happy to walk away andnevermention this to anyone."

The woman, who was apparently their leader, sighed. She had auburn hair pinned up in a big bun and a round, friendly face that did nothing to ease Beau's discomfort.

"Beau, I understand that this is an impolite question, but I need to ask: what kind of salary do you make at The Ledger."

"It's not much," Beau said quickly. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You said your brother needed money. And I want you to know that we're prepared to offer you enough money so that you and your brother would never have to work again."

"You'd give me money... for what?"

"A book."

Beau narrowed his eyes at her.

"You want to pay me to write a book? About what?"

"Our employer," the woman said. "The owner of this penthouse."

He thought back to the discussion he'd overheard before he'd been free of the chair.

"You want me to write a biography. Of, uh, Isidore?"

"Mr. Wolfram. Precisely."

Beau shook his head. "You haven't even read my writing. Like, no offense, but this really isn't the best way to hire a writer."

The woman gave him a smile that was somehow sad. "We're perfectly aware of that, Beau. But the circumstances bear it out that we have to do business this way."

She pulled Beau's notebook out of her chest pocket along with one of his pencils.

"I'm going to give you a ballpark number and you let me know what you think," she said.

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