Page 71 of Poison Wood
I nod. He nods back. Nothing in his expression tells me if he’s still pissed or not.
Erin glances my way and smiles, and I wish like hell I’d refilled my drink.
They walk over to my table, and Erin says, “Hello, Rita.”
“Hey, Erin,” I say.
“We have a lot to discuss. I thought we could go up to the fourth floor. We have some space up there.”
“Sure,” I say. I look down at the box I brought from home. “I brought you something.”
“Huh,” she says, eyeing it. “Someone’s been busy.”
Carl leans down and picks up the box and shoots me a look I ignore.
“I brought your other suitcase from Miami,” he says, pointing to one of the black bags beside him.
The one I was leaving there until I could get back and finish reporting on Laura Sanders. An awkward silence sits between Carl and me, which is even more awkward because we don’t have awkward silences.
“Thank you,” I say, taking it from him.
I follow them to the elevator, rolling my bag of suits and makeup I won’t be needing, and we take an uncomfortably silent ride up to the fourth floor.
The elevator opens into a giant room with a pool table, a huge sectional couch in front of a big-screen television, and a full kitchen with a subzero fridge and giant island. Four closed doors surround it. Two on the east side, two on the west side. The north wall is lined with huge paned windows in an exposed brick wall.
“Wow,” I say. “Which room is yours?”
“All of them. The studio booked the whole floor. We need a war room, and the hotel worked us out a deal.”
NCN must feel this story is bigger than most. If they’re footing the bill for this, it says a lot. A lot I don’t like.
Carl puts his camera bags off to the side and drops the box on the square coffee table in front of the sectional sofa. I follow Erin to the sofa, and we both sit.
“Are you okay with me recording this?” she says.
I glance at the box. “In a minute.”
She sets her phone down. “What have we got here?” she says, nodding to the box.
“Some old files and journals from Poison Wood.”
“How did you get these?” she says.
Carl clears his throat.
“I borrowed them.”
“Rita, what the hell? I can’t take those.”
“Then don’t take them. But I’m going to tell you what’s in them. And there aren’t any names on any of them, not real names. But”—I pause—“I do think I know the real name of who wrote in these journals, Heather Hadwick.”
“Shit,” Carl says, coming over to the sofa. He picks one up and turns it over.
“You can give them to the police,” I say. “Tell them someone left it for you at the hotel.”
“Lie?” she says.
“I’ll leave the box at the front desk,” I say. “So not a lie.”
