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“And, well, that’s another thing. The, er, bonds of matrimony don’t seem to matter a lot to you.”
“You piece of shit.”
“You’re a darn good reporter, Ellie, but it’s that kind of attitude that gets you in trouble. And at Channel Four, we do real news. Not biased innuendo. Not stunts, and—”
“Stunts?” She couldn’t breathe.
“—not incomplete stories with half-baked theories masquerading as fact.”
“My life was in real danger, you asshole.”
He clucked his tongue. “Name calling is counterprod—”
She clicked off. Tossed her phone into the passenger seat but overthrew, and it smacked into the window, bounced down to the seat and then the footwell. Real news? Real news?
She fumed for long moments. Her life had been in danger. In real danger! And Andy was talking about stunts?
She let out a primal scream that made her ears ring and pounded the steering wheel. How much was she expected to do? Save the twins from the vile Crassleys? Save her own self—with McCrae’s help, okay, but hello? Fucking Gale Crassley could have raped her! Crassley was a prick, but McCrae was an asshole. All men were assholes. It was just a fact.
And she’d given him what Nia had said about Penske’s interest in Bailey being a job. Just given it to him. Bestowed it on him with barely an acknowledgment. Now he was out playing cops and robbers with the Crassleys, and she was persona non grata at Channel Seven and Channel Four.
Well, Andy was going to be sorry. She was going to delve some more, get all the facts, all the pieces, everything and write the story of the century, maybe film it on her camera, put in on YouTube.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel until she came up with a plan. She would get that interview from Delta . . . Dee . . . chase her down if she had to, force a confession out of her, and tape it on her phone.
What time was it? 4:30. The longest day of her life. Delta would most likely be picking up her kid from pre-K soon.
Time to go wait outside her house.
Chapter 27
Delta had never been inside McCrae’s family’s house and had expected a somewhat neglected home with years of deferred maintenance. But the kitchen was warm and bright, with honey-colored cabinets in good repair and refurbished oak floors that gleamed. He’d kept what was good and teamed it with a farmhouse sink and quartz countertops.
“Someone did some nice work here,” she said.
The dog stayed stiff and unmoving. Not growling. Just not accepting.
McCrae snapped his fingers, and the animal came to sit at his side.
He’d been just turning off his vehicle, one of the West Knoll blue-and-gold Trailblazers, when she’d pulled in the drive behind him. The first awkward moments were eased by him opening the door and greeting the frisky little dog, who’d changed his position upon seeing Delta. His obvious joy had instantly developed into threatening silence.
“Don’t mind Fido,” McCrae said. “He’ll get over it.”
“Fido?”
“Was Bailey’s dog. I took him in.”
“Oh.”
Now he looked around the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time. “Had to fix it up after Dad died. Hired an interior designer who had a lot of ideas. Took some talking to, but we eventually saw eye to eye.”
“It’s really good.”
“I called Woody after I got off the phone with you.”
“What did he say?” Delta asked curiously.
“He couldn’t give a straight answer if it was his ticket out of hell.”
