Page 39 of The Writer
I linger under that thought as I’m washing and then getting dressed, trying to find some correlation between rude and curt men, and me. Landon’s been the one constant throughout my life, and Father I suppose, but really my brother’s been like an odd twin who happens to be older. Always there, always like a solid wall of home if I’ve needed it. We’re different, but similar in some ways too. Both to the point, both direct, both stubborn. And Blake’s just hit a brick wall if he thinks withholding anything from me is going to work.
I pick up my phone when I’m finally ready and look at the text from Locke. Five thirty at a café in Stratford. Fine. I can do that. I wander to the office and pick up the file of information from the author, passing them through the printer for copies. Why she even sent it to me is still a quandary, and that thought has me sitting down and rifling through it, determined to find something concrete to dig my claws into. Several pieces get put into corresponding piles, some kind of correlation beginning to form, but by the time I glance back up at the clock, two hours have flown by.
Picking the piles up, I stuff them all into my messenger bag. Maybe Locke can make it make sense for me. It’s all a jumble of wayward info, none of it really holding any solidity other than birth certificates and dates I was correlating in some way. The Herald deal is there. Some employment details at Broderick Media, payments to Landon. Odd.
Sighing, I head to the door. It’ll take me a while to get to the meet point, especially in the late school rush, so I skip down the stairs to my car to peel out into the mania. Bikes whizz past as I try to filter towards the quickest route, two of them barely managing to avoid my bonnet in the process. I shout at several of them, screaming obscenities in the hope that they might learn some manners one day. I doubt it, and given the nature of the eight hundred deliveries they’ll still have to achieve today, I’m not that surprised. But, my Porsche is my baby, and I couldn’t give a damn for death if they even think about scratching it.
The phone rings in the car as I push my way through the last of the traffic jams and bus lanes, a relatively open road finally in front of me. I look at Blake's name and frown, not sure whether to bother answering him or not. What else is there to say? I don’t like secrets, especially considering the fact that I am attracted to him past simple fucking. Or was.
Maybe still am, if I’m honest.
I end the call and keep driving, deciding now is not the time, and I'm still too bloody annoyed with him. I don't get it either. Why ask me out for dinner if not to talk? What, he wanted me to spill and be normal while he listened and said nothing? Pathetic. That's not a date in my world. If it was a date. Who bloody knows now?
The phone rings again. Same name steady on the screen. I wish my initial reaction was still in place, so I could end it again, but this time I want answers.
I push the button and answer the call without speaking.
“Ivy?” My eyes narrow, hands turning the steering wheel to jump me past a crash on the side of the road. “Ivy? Are you there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I wanted to apologise.”
“Right.”
“Could we meet again?”
“Zero point in meeting if it’s going to be more of the same, Blake. I’m not into secrets where men are concerned. My life is uncovering secrets. I’m not doing it with you.”
He’s quiet on the line for a while, and then I hear him take a deep breath. “Okay. Full disclosure then.” I zip up a side lane, narrowly avoiding a woman and pushchair. “If I promise to be honest, will you try that on for size?”
My lips tip up, rather interested in anything that involves full disclosure where he’s concerned. He’s going to have to work for it, though. I check my watch and pull up on a side street near the meet point with Locke, switching the car off. “Fine. I’ll meet you at Hampton’s café in Stratford. One hour.”
“An hour?”
“Yes. You want it, you better get running, soldier.” I get out and look around the place, scanning strangers for someone who might look like Noah Locke. “I’ll see you then.”
Switching off the phone, I walk across several roads towards the small café Locke mentioned in the text. It’s at the front-end of a huge run-down complex developed for the Olympics, now completely surrounded by graffiti and litter. How pleasant. I weave my way through downtrodden people and their families, trying to remember the last time I was out this way. Years now. Back when I was running around the wrong streets looking for some trouble to get in.
I smile as I approach the place and think back on Landon getting me out of the inevitable trouble I found myself in. He was quite good at that. I guess that’s what happens when the younger sibling feels like she’s being ignored.
Time passes. I wait, irritated that this Locke couldn't be bothered to be on time.
“Ivy?”
I swing around and immediately step back, eyes wide at the wall of villainy in front of me. He drops the hood down from his face, revealing dark eyes and an even darker scowl on his face. I’m so taken aback at the thought that this is who Landon’s been working with, that I start questioning who the hell my brother is, or has been, in his life.
“Noah?”
“Locke. He shouldn’t have told you my name.” He nods at the café, waving his hand at it. “What do you want to know?”
It takes me a few minutes to acclimatise to his presence, especially when he pushes me towards a quiet corner and barely offers a choice in getting a drink or not. I signal a waitress anyway, needing coffee to get me through whatever this is going to be, as I watch him. He doesn’t speak, just keeps looking at me as if I might be the next level of interesting he’s after. I’m not.
“So, what do you know?” I ask.
“About what?”
“All of it. Do you know how she died? That would be a good start.”
