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Cold fingers run down my spine.
Stop it, Virginia. Stop it. You don’t believe in ghosts.
I take a deep breath and calm my nerves to the point where I can be objective again. Yes. Now where were we?
I’m getting to the stage where I am dreading the part where I have to reveal myself to be a reporter. Do I have to reveal myself at all? I mean, it’s not as if I’m exposing Enron. But Ethan Greene clearly has a dubious reputation in these parts, and there’s a story in there somewhere that would make for riveting reading.
Of course, he can sue me and my newspaper if the allegations are not true. That’s the fine line that investigative journalism treads upon. Right now, I’m just taking baby steps. Making sure that everything in my article will be verified by sources.
I’m supposed to remain impartial, of course. If Ethan Greene has done something wrong, and if he has not been brought to justice for it, then he should pay. But I can’t believe that this man can be capable of doing something heinously wrong. I pride myself on knowing people, of being able to size them up within moments. And Ethan Greene strikes me as . . . inherently good.
I have to report back to Sharon Contralto every two days, of course, which I do by phone. She was piqued when I told her about the hookers and the unsolved disappearance of one.
“OK,” she said. “Find out more.”
So here I am with Ethan, gradually building up his trust so that I can stab him in the back. Only I don’t really want to stab him. I already like his company so much, God help me.
His face clouding a little, Ethan says, “The previous owner killed himself in the study.”
The study I have been in only once, but of course I don’t tell Ethan.
“That’s awful.”
“Nobody wanted to buy the house for a long time. It was empty for a good twenty years. Until I came along.”
I take my cue. “Where did you grow up, Ethan?”
“New Jersey,” he tells me truthfully.
“Why did you move here?”
He pauses for a long time. “I had a different job. A different life. It wasn’t working out as I expected, and so I decided to get away from it all.”
“What sort of job?”
He waves his hand. “Oh you know,” he says vaguely, “projects. Here and there.”
So he doesn’t want me to know.
“You don’t have family?” I press on. “Married? Divorced?”
“No, I never married. My family lives back east. I don’t . . . see them very often.”
Back in the day, David Kinney was scarcely seen in the company of women. He was a notoriously difficult celebrity to track down. He was seldom papped because he was never seen in the usual Hollywood joints. Those, of course, gave rise to certain rumors, which he ignored.
I’m going to play one of those rumor cards right now. Not that I believe in them myself, of course.
“Ethan, I hope you won’t mind me asking you a personal question.”
He tenses, but does not stop me.
I clear my throat and try to look as innocent as possible. “Are you gay?”
He seems taken aback. The thought has obviously not occurred to him. Then he throws back his head and laughs.
I can’t help smiling myself. Ethan Greene laughing is a glorious sight to behold. His eyes crinkle and his mouth turns up at the edges, and he is so beautiful that my guts wrench at the spectacle of him.
“Am I gay?” he finally says, wiping tears out of his eyes. “Oh, that’s rich.”
“Well, are you?”
“Why does that thought even occur to you?” he says, still laughing. “I don’t have anything against gays, I just want you know, but it’s just so . . . so . . . ”
I know what he’s going to say. So ‘ridiculous’. Because the same questions surfaced about his sexuality twelve years ago when he didn’t jump at the bait to date the next starlet.
“Then are you attached?” I persist.
“Obviously not.”
I am bold. I’m an investigative reporter, for Chrissake. I thrive on the edge.
I say, “You’re single. I’m single. We’ve been spending a lot of time together. I’ve been told that I’m singularly attractive. Then why haven’t you made a pass at me?”
Even as I say that, I realize that I really, really want him to make a pass at me. I’m not a fan girl anymore, I swear. I just happen to find Ethan Greene remarkably, ludicrously attractive in every way. Even with the dark questions hanging above his neck like a proverbial sword.
He’s astonished.
Hit by a freight train.
At least, the way his mouth gapes open suggests that.
He finally stammers, “Y-you want me to make a pass at you?”
