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He's sitting across from me at the kitchen table. The very same table I shared meals with him and his family at not two days ago.
"I don't have any more scones," Polly says, sticking her head into the fridge. "But I can make you a sandwich using leftovers from the lamb roast you made."
Normally, I'd jump right on it. But this is not a normal situation, and I get the distinct impression that once I tell Wilby and Polly the purpose of my visit, I'm going to be persona non grata.
"I'm fine," I tell her. "Might be better to get this over and done with. Please."
I place my briefcase on the table, open it, and produce a manilla folder.
Wilby tilts his head to read the writing on the front. He frowns. "Why does it say Corbin, Gifford, and— Noooo." He rears back, staring at me in disbelief. "Fuck me dead."
"What is it?" Polly abandons the drinks and comes over.
Wilby keeps glaring at me, his jaw pulsing angrily. "It's you."
"Him, what?" Polly asks, switching her gaze between me and Wilby.
"I work for Corbin, Gifford, and Brysen," I say, doing my best to keep my voice steady. "I'm the Executive Director for the Asia Pacific region."
"I don't…" she starts, then stops when it dawns on her. "You're our last hope."
"No. He's not." Wilby storms to his feet, fists balled by his sides, knuckles bone white. "He's here to take our property."
"That's not strictly?—"
"When did you know?"
I heave out a sigh. "On the drive over here."
"Bullshit."
"It's true. I was assigned this case before I got to Australia, but everything in the file is under Grayson, and it's not like you have a mailbox with your family name or the street number on it. I had no idea that this was the place when you brought me out here. I swear to you."
He shakes his head in disgust and props his hands on his hips. "Get out."
"Wilby!" Polly gives him a hearty thwack across the chest.
"What?" he yells back at her. "You just finished saying we don't quit. Well, we also don't just roll over and surrender, either."
"Let's hear him out," she reasons. "I'd like to hear what he has to say."
"What's the fucking point? The suits in Sydney dismissed this"—he waves his hand over the manilla folder—"as a last-ditch effort that's unlikely to actually change anything."
Wilby shakes his head at me, spittle forming in the corners of his mouth. He's fuming, and there's one person and one person only he's directing all that rage squarely at.
I don't blame him. He's in shock. Hell, I'm still in shock myself. I honestly had no idea that I'd come to Scuttlebutt to work with Wilby's family. I mean, what are the freaking odds of that?
And it kills me that he thinks I knew about this beforehand. I honestly didn't. This whole case is, by far, the messiest one I’ve ever come across with a very complicated ownership structure, as is becoming increasingly clear. I’m more confused than ever by who owns what and what role Wilby plays in all of this.
I’m also aware that he's got trust issues, so the last thing I would ever do is to deceive him like this. I'd never willingly, knowingly, do anything to betray him. I have to tell him that.
I stand. "Can we please try and?—"
He sticks his hand out. I stop talking. This isn't my first time being met with a less than enthusiastic reaction to my arrival. I find the best tactic is to defuse the situation, and if that means letting Wilby take control of things for now, then so be it.
"I request that any and all further communication be in writing and through our legal counsel."
"Wilby, that's not really how this works."
