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“And don’t...” Phil made a crude gesture for what he didn’t want her doing with Artie. “Now get out.”
Phil was never going to be her favorite person, but he’d given her a chance and there was no malice behind his brusqueness. She knew who he was now, a big old porch dog, lots of bark, would growl at you if you got out of line, best left alone to do what he enjoyed, snooze in the sun, only Phil’s version of snoozing was putting out a daily newspaper. If you respected him, waited for the right moment, he’d roll over and let you pat his belly, and so long as you didn’t sleep with him, he’d be as loyal a friend as you could ever need.
And despite her affection for Martha, Derelie had always been a dog person.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Walt Disney was fired from a newspaper for lacking imagination. Henry Ford went broke trying to sell cars. Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime. Albert Einstein was
a miserable student, but famous for his genius.
Bob Bix would become infamous overnight for ripping off millions of honest American accident victims when Jack’s story ran.
Two hours before press time, Sunday night, and Roscoe couldn’t stop grinning. “Keepsafe will still come at us, but we’re ready. Eh, it’ll mostly be posturing.” He rubbed his hands together. Legal posturing was Friday Night Football for Roscoe. “You have the whole money trail direct to Bix’s own pocket. He’ll be jobless by lunchtime.”
“We’ll need the next day’s follow-up story, and what do we do about your source?” asked Madden. “Is he profile potential?”
Henri Costa had a rough week since that last meet up. His supervisor discovered the same statistical problem Henri had first picked up on and brought to Jack, but instead of being in Bix’s pocket and a threat as Henri feared, he’d enabled Henri to get access to the information Jack needed. All Henri wanted now was his old, secure, not very exciting job in a company that treated policyholders fairly.
“No. He’s keen to stick to his anonymity.” Madden grunted, and Jack understood why; whistleblower stories made good copy. “But we’ve got a dozen juicy case studies with victims that will make Bix and his cronies look like the pieces of shit they are.”
“Right, we’re done then.” Madden pointed at Jack. “Get some sleep, you’ve got a long day Monday.”
Another one, but this time he’d be telling the story, not working on it. Breakfast radio, newsbreaks during the day and a TV spot in the evening.
“The case studies are Berkelow’s work.” He wanted to make sure she got credit for her contribution.
Madden acknowledged that with a nod, and ten minutes later Jack was on the street making his way home. He needed to iron a week’s worth of shirts. He needed to drop into bed and not fall asleep while Derelie was talking to him. He was still unsure what he’d done to earn her forgiveness and acceptance. It gave him emotional vertigo every time she said she loved him, and she’d said it often since the night he’d been foul with her, but instead of being reassuring, it made him uncomfortable, like he was part of an experiment that could only end in creating a disease, not finding a cure.
He was tired; that was all it was. Focused. Had to be. There’d be time after the story ran to talk it through.
Martha was full of complaints when he eased in the door, standing on her hind legs to paw at him, but there was food in her bowl and fresh water, plus clean litter, so what was her deal? Apart from being left in the apartment alone.
He chucked her under the chin. “Life not going your way, huh?”
If she could understand more than his tone of voice and roll her eyes, she would’ve. Instead she dug a claw into his thigh, and like any half-decent assault and battery artist, she bolted to the other side of the room with revenge and blood on her paws.
He swatted at the sting. “Take it up with your lawyer.”
That’s when he saw the note taped to one of his screens. Derelie had gone to catch a late yoga class, and since he didn’t tell her what time he expected to be home that was nothing to be concerned by. Except he felt her not being here was a gap, an activity not ticked off on his to do list, a detail forgotten, a point not expanded on. She’d created a hearth outside work he’d never truly known before.
He stood in his apartment and noted the changes in it since she’d arrived with stolen property and her determination to get the story of him. It was tidy, for one thing. Work was confined to his desk and his bookcase instead of being spread everywhere.
Every surface in the kitchen was functioning as a kitchen, not an extension of his workplace. His doing. There were flowers on the table by the door, cheap and cheerful, there was a pot of something that smelled piney in the bathroom where there was an extra toothbrush in the holder and assorted girl things. Her doing. The ironing board was behind a door, there was a bright throw rug that didn’t belong to him over the back of the couch and a pillow that matched it. He’d never have bought a throw rug or a pillow. He’d never have cleaned up for himself, but because she was there, it was the obvious thing to do—make it a home, not a destination he used to do more of what he did in the office: to sleep, eat, wash and leave a cat.
Who’d have guessed thirty-six questions would lead to a different angle on life?
Derelie arrived while he was starching collars and cuffs. He made a grab for Martha before she could go for the door.
“Hello, Heartbeat of the City, Defender of the People,” Derelie said, dropping her bag on the floor. She wore her yoga pants and a zip-up sweatshirt. Her hair was both damp and frizzy and her skin flushed, freckles standing out. She had chipped nail polish and a red breakout on her chin. She wore her aligner. She was head to toe wonderful. “It’s nice to see you awake.”
Martha paddled her paws, so he put her down and she flopped over at his feet in a pose Derelie called carpet. “Hello, Reporter of Stories People Love to Read. It’s always nice to see you.”
She raised a brow. “If the clickbait fits.”
“I’ve come to accept that clickbait has its value.” He meant her to understand that as an apology for his vicious clickbait crack the other night.
She put one sneaker-covered foot on its toe and rolled her knee inward, cocking her head to the side and bringing her shoulder up. Five-year-old girl. Unforgivably cute. “Aw, Dinkus, you say the sweetest things.”
