Page 66 of A Ticking Time Boss

“And you never trusted a man in a suit after that,” he says, fingering the lapel of his jacket. “I’ll burn every single one I own.”

I laugh and reach across the table, finding his hand. It’s warm beneath mine. “Absolutely not. You’re not the same as him, I know that. I knew that from the first time we met!”

“What was his name?” Carter asks. “Did you ever manage to find him? Get justice?”

I shake my head. “Will C. Jenner was the alias he used. We didn’t find anyone who matched his description with that name.”

“Fuck. What a scoundrel,” he says.

“Yeah. We tried talking about it to the papers, too. Dad didn’t have a picture of him, but he could describe him very well. But no one was interested in running the story,” I say. It still feels like an insult. A good investigative journalist could have followed a trail. Found other families devastated by this man. Made it into a bigger story of con artists in the country. But no one was interested. “I guess only the Bernie Madoffs attract national attention.”

Carter’s voice is low. “That’s why you want to be a journalist. Why you’re working on the story of that construction company evicting tenants in Queens.”

“Yes, I think so. A problem can’t get fixed if people don’t know about it, you know? That’s my job as a journalist. Our job as a newspaper. Equip people with knowledge.”

His mouth curls into a small smile. “Do I sound naive?” I ask. “I know the Globe’s numbers aren’t the best.”

“No,” he agrees, “they aren’t. But you keep making compelling argument after argument to keep it running.”

“Am I convincing you?”

“Kid, you convinced me a long time ago,” he says. “I just have to get the numbers to add up.”

It’s late when we leave the bar. Late enough that the bartender is cleaning off the counter, and only a few stragglers are left. The drinks have left me happy and lightheaded and a little brave.

A lot brave.

“I’ll drive you home,” Carter says. His hand brushes against mine as we walk along the curb. “Say goodnight outside your deathtrap of a house.”

“It’s not so bad. It has… charm.”

“You don’t have a lock on your door,” he says, like that’s the end of the conversation.

I shrug. “I guess I’m just more of a trusting person than you are.”

“Probably, but I wouldn’t say that’s a good thing.”

We pause on the sidewalk and wait for his black town car to arrive. I rock back on my heels, butterflies dancing inside my throat. “Well… it’s got one redeeming feature.”

“Yes,” Carter says. “Its tenant.”

I laugh. “Thank you. But I was referring to something else. The fire escape.”

“A way to leave your apartment in case of a fire isn’t a redeeming feature. It’s a legal requirement.”

I nudge his shoulder with mine. It’s solid, a brick wall. “But it’s so New York. For a girl from out of town, I feel like a character in a sitcom.”

“You sit out there?”

“Sometimes. It has a pretty good view. And well… I have a bottle of wine at home.”

Tawny eyes look down on me. There’s a light in them. “Are you inviting me in for a glass?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Well then,” Carter says. “I’ve never been more excited to see a fire escape.”

FOURTEEN

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