“I’ll be there. I’m going to run a quick errand, and then I’ll be there.”
Lorna frowned but didn’t say more. Sarah got it. Her receptionist couldn’t understand why Sarah wasn’t going early to survey the room, drink a vodka on the rocks, and settle in before the man arrived. It was a ritual Sarah did before meeting any big client, and Paul was by the far the biggest she’d ever had.
She skipped the elevator and ran down the stairs three at a time, jumping four to reach the landing before running full speed to her car.
“Come on, come on,” she grumbled, sitting behind a woman in a Buick who struggled to slide her credit card into the payment slot. Sarah bit her lip and tried not to jump out and do it for her. Once on the street, she squealed down back roads, pulling to a stop in front of the arcade and barreling through the doors, nearly knocking over an acne-covered teenager playing Area 51.
“Sorry,” she called, bursting into the sticky back room that Will often called home.
The room was empty.
“No,” she muttered, scanning the room and then jogging back to find an unfamiliar face at the desk. “Where’s Will?” she asked the tall, skinny boy-man who sported a thin line of splotchy red hair on his upper lip.
He looked up and shrank away, as if she might reach under the window and throttle him.
“I don’t know, lady. He comes and goes.”
Sarah sighed and kicked the cement wall, which sent a vibrating beam into her hip.
In the parking lot, she pulled out her phone and called the number of his friend, Melanie for Emergencies Only. It went to voicemail. Will didn’t own a cell phone, and she chastised herself for not forcing one on him.
She was supposed to meet Maurice at two-fifteen, with directions to Doctor Evil for a three o’clock meeting. Her meeting with Paul was at two p.m. sharp.
When Paul Hudson arrived at the cocktail lounge, Sarah was downing her vodka and tapping her foot furiously beneath the table. She had intended to change before the meeting, but instead wore her usual jeans and white shirt. At least she’d opted for a white button-down shirt that morning.
A tall, broad-shouldered man in an expensive navy suit walked into the little restaurant. His hair was streaked in silver, and his face was tanned, as if he lived in California rather than New York.
“Sarah Flynn?” he asked, gazing at her. She noticed his eyes flick over her casual attire and fought the urge to apologize for her outfit.
“Paul Hudson,” Sarah said, standing and extending her hand. She shook his hand hard and led him back to her table.
“I didn’t expect you to be so lovely, Sarah,” he said, sitting across from her. “A woman of your accomplishments should be homely, I’m sure.”
She offered the customary laugh and searched within herself for the cool Sarah who met with men such as this all the time. Instead, she found a niggling sense of dread. It was five minutes after two. Time was running out.
“I see you’ve started without me,” he said with a wink. He ordered a scotch on the rocks and leaned back in his chair, surveying her.
Sarah tried to sit up taller, but her legs had taken on a life of their own and bounced rhythmically beneath the table.
Paul leaned over the side and looked down.
“I think you’re jiggling the whole building.” He smirked.
Sarah took a deep breath, reached into her folder, and pulled out a stack of prints.
“Paul, I’m sorry to do this, but an emergency came up right before I walked in this door. As you can see,” she gestured at her clothes and shaking legs. “I’m not prepared for our meeting. I’m going to have to reschedule.”
He frowned and tilted his head to the side.
“You have something more important than this meeting?” he asked.
“Yep.” She stood and handed him the file, wondering if she’d be leaving behind a dream when she walked from the building. “This is an overview of what I hoped to speak with you about. If you’re not too insulted to see me again, give my secretary a call. It’s been a pleasure.”
She turned before he could speak and ran from the room. The lounge was on the tenth floor, and she had no choice but to the take the elevator. The seconds dragged like hours, and when she reached the first floor, she dashed out, narrowly missed two old ladies clutching their purses and staring at her in alarm.
CORRIE
I WATCHED the man leave the little table stacked with books. He meandered through shelves to the coffee bar at the back of the bookstore. After they handed him his paper cup decorated with dancing coffee beans, I hurried out from between the shelves.
He looked up, startled, but smiled. I rarely made men uneasy. On the contrary, they liked me on sight, for which I could thank my looks entirely.
“I read your book,” I blurted.
“The Owl Tree?” he asked. “It was a fun one to write. Would you like me to sign your copy?” He looked at my empty hands and back at my face.
“Not The Owl Tree. Your other book, The Summoning.”
His face darkened, but he masked it with a larger smile.
“Well, now I can thank you and my mother for the two copies I sold. Wherever did you find it?”
“In a used bookstore. I think it found me.”
Before I could go on, a young woman with bright red spectacles perched on her freckled nose bustled over to us.
“You’re on in fifteen minutes, Mr. Wolfe.” The girl glanced at me before turning back the way she’d come. I had the distinct impression she was sizing up her competition.
“Speaking of summoning, I’m being summoned right now. It was a brief pleasure, Mrs.…?”
“Flynn,” I told him, but caught his sleeve before he turned away.
“I’d like to speak with you about the book. Please?” I had a momentary terror that if he said no, I’d collapse screaming to the floor.
Perhaps he saw something similar in my eyes. He sighed and nodded.
“After my reading, I intend to visit Seven Monks. It’s a taproom here in town. I fancy myself something of a beer connoisseur, though I can seldom tell an ale from a lager.”
I forced a smile and nodded.
“I know the place. I’ll get us a booth.”
“MRS. FLYNN, you realize The Summoning was a work of fiction, right? I see a certain look in your eye, one I’ve unfortunately encountered before, and I want to get that part over straightaway. I made the book up.”
“Call me Corrie,” I told him, sipping the hard cider the waitress had delivered. It tasted good, but the sweetness made my stomach churn. “I know it’s labeled fiction, but…”
“But nothing,” he said. He took a drink and nodded. “I love a good sour. Care to try?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Wolfe.”
“Please call me Fletcher. If you’re going to insult me, you should at least use my first name.”
“I’m not insulting you. I understand you might have stretched the truth, changed names, but I feel the truth in that book. I know it, Fletcher. I know it.”
He took another drink and stared away from me, his eyes flitting over pictures on the wall, patrons sitting at the bar, landing everywhere except my face.
“Let’s have a hypothetical conversation, shall we?” he asked. “Let’s say, hypothetically, when I was a young man, I became interested in the occult. While immersed in such things, I experienced a great tragedy.”
“The death of your girlfriend,” I murmured.
“Yes, in the book her name was Ann. Ann,” he did air quotes as he spoke her name, “drowned one summer while we were boating with friends. My fictional self became obsessed with the notion I could bring her back from the dead.”