Page 63 of Sinful Seduction
I’m reasonably certain she frowns. Though her quarterly Botox injections make it hard for her brows to move too far. “Care?”
“Ya know, like, give a shit about the mousy kid who followed you around for a month with stars in her eyes.” Fletch drops into his chair and rests his elbows on his knees. “Like, at some point, in some dark, dingy corner of your soul, you felt a twinge of sadness for the girl who was shot, and whose boyfriend died.”
“I care for her as much as I care for the guy who makes my coffee in the morning.” She glances down her nose, smirking with smug satisfaction. “I care about the coffee I receive. Or the tasks an intern completes. Nothing more. That doesn’t mean I wish them harm, but I don’t particularly think of them, either.”
Bitch.
“We’d like to hear your impression of the mousy girl with no backbone.” I take a seat and settle in with my arms on the rests. If she wants to fake nonchalance, then I’ll do the same. “Without your bitchy-wash over top, I want your thoughts. Molly planned to attend Copeland U next year and pursue her journalism degree.”
She dismisses the girl’s dreams with a simple quirk of her nose. “She reminds me of that other one. The mousy loser over on…” She considers. “Channel Seventy-Nine. Tiffany.”
The one who replaced you. Got it.
“There’s a certain level of confidence required for this job. A self-assurance and dogged tenacityneededfor those who wish to succeed in an industry where exposing uncomfortable truths is at the bedrock of what they do. It’s not like people routinely volunteer their innermost fears and anxieties for public consumption. It takes a skilled journalist to ferret out those words.”
“Some might call it predatory.” I hold her hard eyes. “But that’s just splitting hairs, I suppose.”
“Tiffany doesn’t have what it takes for industry longevity. And frankly, neither does Holly.”
“Molly,” Fletch cuts in. “Her name is Molly.”
She shrugs. “My point remains. I’ve been around for a while now, and I’ve met many people. Some are loud, but without substance. Some are quiet, but they’ve got a little something tucked away for when they need it. And then there are the winners, the journalists who possess a knack for extracting information others can’t. They’re in the right places at the right time, rubbing shoulders with the right people, and those people often open doors that would have otherwise remained shut. To be successful, a journalist must have a nose for what’s coming, predict human behavior, and place correctly, so when the shit hits the fan and a story needs scooping, she’s already right where she needs to be.”
“Kind of like a firefighter holding a box of matches.”
“She…” She stops, frowns… considers. “What?”
“Never mind.” I snicker. “Go on. And perhaps you could bring your rant back on point.”
Her lips peel back, revealing an unfriendly sneer. “My point, Detective, is that mousy, spineless, shy girls like Molly Freemon will always be the researcher. The assistant. She’ll never be on screen, because she doesn’t have what it takes. I told her so when she asked for my advice during her time here.”
“She asked?” Fletch sits back and crosses his left ankle onto his right knee. “She specifically wanted your take on things?”
“Naturally. I told her what I told you just now, adding that she was welcome to continue her education in any direction she saw fit, but that it would be a monumental waste of her time unless she could find a little… what’s the word I’m looking for?” She brings fiery eyes across to me. “Bitchiness. Gentleness doesnotpay in this industry, and passivity won’t get her through the doors she needs to walk through.”
“What did she say to all that?” I pinch my lip between my thumb and forefinger and study the woman I once spent an evening with. Pulsing in the back of my mind, questions blink like neon lights.How? Why?Knowing what I know now, and having spent all this time with a woman like Minka Mayet, how could I have found the likes of Miranda London tolerable enough to lose my pants?
That was the Malone part of me, surely. The cracked, broken part.
“She said nothing.” Pulling her legs off the desk, Miranda sets her feet on the floor and straightens in her chair. “Her boyfriend turned up and took her out to lunch. Which—” Scoffing, she drags her desk drawer open and takes out a stick of gum. “Is another strike against her future success. She was learning stuff here, receiving valuable insight into the world she swore she wanted to jump into. But that boy turns up and tells her to move, so she moves.” She unwraps the gum and folds the piece—once, twice, three times—before placing the square on her tongue. “She changed when he arrived.”
My pulse quickens. My intuition niggling. “Changed, how?”
“Changed, like, she was mousy and quiet with me. That’s who she is. It’s a personality trait she’ll never escape. But she became a ghost of that person when he walked up. He was the Pied Piper, and she was the dirty little rat, dancing to his tune. You should talk to Perry.” She hooks a thumb toward the door. “He was friendly with her while she was here. Not, like…” She wrinkles her nose. “Not romantically. She’s still a kid, and though Perry’s kinda young, too, he’s got his head on straight and adheres to workplace boundaries. But they were pals. They got along. Maybe he knows more.”
“We’ll do that.” I file his name away in the back of my mind, but I don’t stand yet. I don’t move a single inch. “I have another question, if you don’t mind.”
She waits in silence, gesturing my way when the silence persists. “Go ahead.”
“I noticed you carry a Glock 42 these days. I don’t recall you doing sobefore.”Before last year. Before Ethan O’Dey injected her with a killer cocktail of drugs that didn’t quite finish their job. “Is that new, or was I simply unobservant in the past?”
Less arrogant now, she sits back in her chair, her eyes darkening and her pulse skipping in her throat. “I got it a while ago. Eight months or so.”
“You practice with it?” Fletch questions. “Attend the range weekly?”
“A few times a week. My hands shook at first, so I made it my mission to hit a center target the first time every time.”
“So you have a good aim now?” I press. “Confident with your weapon?”
