I hesitated for only a second before swallowing my pride and reaching into my purse, pulling out the bright-purple Lisa Frank notebook.
***
Half an hour later, Jamie pulled up to the valet at the River Estate, threw the car into park, and hopped out. A valet rushed up and Jamie tossed him the keys, along with a quick “Shay Deroy.” He turned to me. “Is there somewhere private we can keep talking?”
The air grew charged. The awareness tickled the soft hairs of my arms into standing.
“You can come to my room, if you want.” I kept my eyes straight ahead, on the River Estate’s stone entranceway.
“Okay,” he said lightly. “That’ll work.”
He was so impressed with my room that I expected to feel embarrassed. But to my surprise, I felt nothing but pleasure at his reaction. I suspected some part of me had always longed to show off to him, to confirm his high estimation of me.
“Not to pry,” he said as he slid onto the plush couch in the sitting room, “but this can’t be writing-for-The-Slice money, or I’m in the wrong kind of journalism.”
“It’s Cal’s money,” I said, the pleasure fading.
“Shit. Where do I find one of those hedge funders of my very own?” He read my face and cleared his throat. “Anyway.” He patted the couch. “Do you want to talk?”
I sat gingerly on the opposite end. The curtains on the floor-to-ceiling windows were pulled back, revealing the dark Hudson River, the green, tree-lined shore, and the rising mountains in the distance. All of it was lit by a slowly dying sun.
“We have to go to the Hudson Mansion,” I said. “Find Tongue-Cut Sparrow.”
He nodded. “That’s what I was going to say. Any luck with our last interview?”
“No.” I drew my feet up on the couch. “I left Laurel’s mom half a dozen voicemails, but I haven’t heard anything.”
“You’d think she’d want to connect with one of her daughter’s friends.”
I watched the river, little waves eddying, lapping at each other. “We know so much more than we did just two days ago. The fact that Laurel started acting erratically five or six years ago, quitting her job and disappearing from her apartment for months at a time. That she was interested in Tongue-Cut Sparrow. That she had a strange symbol on her arm—”
“That the cops are clearly withholding information,” Jamie added.
“I just wish I knew how it all fit together.”
We fell into silence. Jamie’s eyes roamed to my bed, which was large and white and perfectly made, the comforter turned down invitingly.
I felt a flush of heat.
“Shay.” His voice was deep when he turned and caught my eyes. My heart sped up. “Would you let me interview you for the podcast?”
I blinked. “What?”
“You’re an important witness.” His expression was earnest. “You knew Laurel so well. Maybe some helpful details will surface.”
I tensed. Jamie was asking me to do the exact thing I’d avoided. Open doors I’d locked.
“It might help her,” he said softly, and my heart squeezed.
You’re here to be brave, I reminded myself. Kick down the door, like Clem.
“Okay,” I whispered. “What exactly do you want to know?”
“Tell me where things went wrong, back in college.”
“You want the whole story?”
Jamie laid his phone on the couch between us and pressed a button. Red bars raced across the screen, searching for sound.