Page 55 of The Lawyer
“That author—Geraldine whatever, Father said you’re investigating her?”
“Yes. He didn’t hire her, and neither did I, so who gave her permission to interview us all?”
“I don’t know. It was all part of you becoming CEO. The handover, the fifty years—”
I cut her off. “And why would I want all that? Really, Ivy. I don’t have time for this.”
“So, what are you doing about it?”
“Sensible language, Ivy. I’m particularly fractious today. What would you like me to do about it other than the obvious?”
“Something? This is not alright, Landon.” No, but furious as I might be by it, it’s not the top of my priority list at the moment.
“I set a contact on the trail yesterday. Other than that, I don’t see what else I can do. I’m sure he’ll report back when—”
“Pointless. She’s dead.”
That's what Locke was calling for then.
I sigh and refill my drink, barely interested other than the potential crap that will surely ensue in other media.
“Landon? Did you hear? Suspicious circumstances, according to my sources. This does not look good for us.”
“Her death has nothing to do with us. I really—”
“It’s all over the grapevine already, and there’s probably going to be headlines for the next week at least. If the FT piece was enough to cause you grief, what comes next is going to force us front and centre with no ability to hide.”
I huff and walk out to the terrace, still not particularly interested. “There isn’t anything to link us to her death, Ivy. Let them write what they want.” My fingers run over the stone Willow was leant against, my frown getting deeper. “At the moment, I don’t have time for this. I’ll deal with it tomorrow. You’re the investigative journalist—investigate.”
“Landon, what the hell—”
“Perhaps writing for your own family would be of use right now rather than fucking around for other papers.”
“That’s not fair. You’re being a dick, Landon, and—”
I switch her off, put the phone on the balustrade, and pull in more breaths to counter what little irritation was rising regarding that topic. The fact that it’s of little importance to me at the moment is as confusing as the way I feel. I’m … almost fucking dreaming as I look out at the view. What I’m dreaming of, is unknown. A different life, maybe. A different me, even. Not that I’m entirely sure what, or who, I am other than the lawyer that’s been entrenched in me. Sharp mind, focused thoughts—always searching for the solution on my own. Yet here, now, I can’t find one on my own at all.
Alone suddenly feels too big.
My fingers swipe the phone screen until Willow’s work number comes up, and I hover over the call icon. I don’t know what I want to say, though. And not only do I not know what I want to say, I also don’t know how to rectify something that probably shouldn’t be rectified at all.
Still, something needs to happen. Maybe I can pay her off, get her gone from the building, so I don’t have to see her every day. Or maybe I could just accept this underlying need and deal with it. Either way, nothing is going to be resolved until she’s in front of me and we can talk.
Calling the number feels like a knife driving into my chest, and I smile at that thought as it rings. I swallow by the time the eighth ring ends, nodding to myself about the fact that she's probably as tense about answering as I am phoning.
“Yes,” her voice suddenly says.
My head rears back up from looking at the floor. “Where are you?”
“At work, obviously.”
“Get your bag and head down to the front desk. A car will be there for you in fifteen minutes.”
“Am I supposed to be somewhere? There’s nothing in your diary that—”
“You’re supposed to be where I want you. That’s currently not where you are.” Nothing but silence comes back to me. And while that might piss me off, I’m not surprised at her hesitation in the slightest. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Where is here?”
