Page 32 of The Writer
“Seriously?” Dan questions. I know why.
“Nope. Not this time. Although I have a few people I can contact if the stay is longer than a few weeks.”
“Wow, when was the last time you stayed here for that long?”
Eight years.
“I know, but it’s different this time. I’ve had some close calls, and honestly, I’m not sure I’m ready to call it done on this being my life anymore.” Plus, right now, I'm having fun with the girl who crashed into my life in a spray of bullets.
The guilt of thinking about another woman while talking to Dan tells me all I need to know. “Hey, look.” I shift on my seat and catch the barman’s attention, signalling for another round. “There’s another reason I’m back, well, at least part of the reason I might stick around for a little while. I met someone. I don’t know where it’s going yet, but I want to give it a chance.”
Dan nods as if he’s agreeing with what I’m saying. “Okay. Full of the surprises today, aren’t you?”
“Look, we were thrown together in a situation, and I’ve seen her a couple of times since. It’s nothing serious.”
“But you’re here to see if it can be?”
“Is that a problem?” I knew this conversation might be awkward, but I never expected any real problem from Dan.
“No. I guess I never believed you’d get over Amanda.”
Silence stretches between us, and we both focus on our beer. No other talk. Nothing to break the news I just dropped on him like a bombshell. I fidget under the pressure of it, struggling to determine a clear path through what Dan might be feeling now. Let alone how it is still making me feel.
“Look, why don’t we meet up again in a week? I could even meet that wife of yours. Maybe then I’ll remember her name.” I slap his shoulder as I stand and pull a couple of notes from my wallet.
“That would be great, man, and I’m sorry for ...” He goes quiet, clearly as troubled with thoughts as I am.
“Hey, don’t worry. As I said, I don’t know where it’s going. Beers are on me.”
I leave, needing to get some air.
The last thing I want to do is push my best friend away, but I’ll be damned if I won’t go after the one person I’ve felt a connection with in years. I’m done pushing people away.
Chapter Ten
IVY
Afew dayspass before I manage to find any amount of time to sit and look through the mail.I walk to the study, picking up all the parcels and letters on the way, and sit down to start opening them. I’m not sure what’s happened to keep me so occupied, but with more meetings to make sure the money comes in from the old pieces I’ve written, I’m now set and can dedicate time to get on with this investigation, especially as the headlines haven’t eased off.
I pick up my phone as I’m looking through some bills, dialling Landon. He doesn’t answer, which isn’t unusual, so I leave a voicemail asking for this Noah Locke’s number. I need to speak with that guy, or at least find out where he’s already up to. Pointless me doing the work if he’s already done it.
Bills and standard mail dealt with, I pick up a few parcels, most of which are things I’ve ordered, but the last one seems odd. The date says it was posted well before I left for Kabul, which means it’s nothing I’ve ordered.
I pick up the heavy thing, turning it over so I can slice through the end. The moment I do, a raft of paperwork falls out. I grab at some of it and start scanning, unsure what it is that I’m looking at. Some seem old, bent corners and frayed edges. Others are brand new, as if printed only yesterday.
It isn’t until I find what probably should have been a covering letter that I start to understand. It’s from the author—Geraldine Watkinson—and appears to be all sorts of information regarding our family. Birth certificates, marriage certificates, there’s even some scans of company documents dating back to the 1950s.
Weird.
I stare at the paperwork spread out on my desk, both confounded and elated. Why the hell she’s sent any of this to me is unknown, but I appreciate the heads up. Obviously, with no idea what any of it means or is relevant to, I begin leafing through the documents one by one, hoping to gain some insight. They don’t seem all that fascinating—more innocuous and simple facts about our history. The fact that I’m pissed someone has been digging this deep seems to go unnoticed for a while, and I end up grabbing a tea and taking my time to analyse anything that might be of use.
The phone rings as I’m looking at the back of an old birth certificate, grandfather’s I think, or maybe his fathers. I pick up the phone, sliding my finger across the screen without looking at the caller.
“Ivy?”
My eyes roll. Typical. Just as I start getting into something. “Mother.”
“Are you coming or not?”
