“I know you don’t want me there,” he says quietly. “And I won’t force my way in. But imagine you’re a donor. You receive a call directly from a fossil site in Montana from someone who’s genuinely excited, or you speak with a minimally knowledgeable person in an office building in California. Which one would make you open your wallet?”
His logic is airtight. Suffocating.
If Ripley brings him out to Clever Girl, she’ll have to trust him with her find, her secrecy, and her safety. She’ll open up her fragile reputation to insinuations about how she might have enticed him to support her.
He’ll have everything she cares about in the palm of his hand—just like Will did.
“I promise I won’t share anything without your authorization, Ripley,” Smithson says, a whispering vibration in his voice underliningI promise.“But I can’t sell something I know nothing about. That and I’d be a fool not to at leastaskto see the work of one of the most brilliant scholars of her generation.”
Even three years too late, his praise—James Smithson’spraise—pours down Ripley’s spine like warm honey. Her old self is too shallowly buried, still an easily fooled, applause-hungry ghost.
“I’ve licked a fossil before, you know,” he says, the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I can help with excavation.”
“I work alone.”
“Clearly not,” he says, his eyes alight with something she can’t quite identify. “You work with the Yellowtails. You have a whole crew. I think you could work with me too.”
That’s the problem: She could. She might evenwantto.
Ripley crosses her arms over her chest. Through the window, she sees a black town car on the main road slow down, then turn in to Geraldine’s driveway.
A flash of something that might be resignation tugs Smithson’s mouth down. His hand brushes across his pants pocket, one finger absently tapping through the fabric. There’s a muffled metallic clink.
“That’s my driver,” he says, searching her face for a decision she hasn’t yet made.
“You didn’t just rent a car?”
“I don’t drive. It’s not necessary in London.” He extends the telescoping handle of his suitcase, shoulders the weekend bag.
“Oh. I see. When’s your flight?”
“I came by car.” He turns and rolls toward the exit.
“All the way fromCalifornia?”
“It seems so.”
The driver taps the horn.
She has to choose. There’s not even a choice, really. But at least this time, unlike with Will, she knows what’s at stake.
“I have rules,” she says. “If you come to the dig.”
He stops. Looks over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“First, it’smydig. You’re not in charge. You don’t take a single drop of credit for anything I find.”
“Done.”
“You tell no one where it is, ever. You don’t talk about me and what I’m doing.”
His eyes kindle with interest, but all he says is “That’s fine. Anything else?”
“One more thing. You and I will maintain a strictly professional relationship. Nothing that could prompt even a glimmer of an idea of a rumor. No tête-à-têtes. No working inside each other’s cabins. No unnecessary touching.”
He recoils. “Jesus Christ, Ripley. I would never—” He’s so horrified, he has to take a moment to calm down. “I would never cross the line with you. Or any of your crew.”
His driver taps the horn twice.
