Chapter Eleven
Eleven
Evan stuck around for a few minutes, kicking back in his chair and smiling pleasantly at Melanie Joan, as though he expected her to serve him tea and cookies.
Melanie Joan glared at him. “Nice seeing you.” She said it pointedly. But either he didn’t notice or he didn’t care.
Spike walked up to where Evan was sitting and loomed over him, his arms crossed over his chest. I had to say, Spike was a damned good loomer.
When Evan turned around, a type of fear crept into his eyes—basic and primordial, like a mouse coming face-to-face with a woolly mammoth.
He slipped the legal papers back into the tired-looking satchel he had looped over the back of his chair. “I’ll be going, then,” he said.
“Yes,” Spike said. “Yes, you will.”
Evan picked up the satchel and headed toward the door.
“Goodbye, Evan,” Melanie Joan called out.
“Good riddance, Evan,” I said.
After Woodrow left, I turned to Melanie Joan. “Harold said that he used to be different before Greg Scepter took over.”
“He was,” Melanie Joan said.
“I find that hard to believe,” Spike said.
“No, no, Harold’s right,” she said. “He had a real passion for books. We’d talk for hours about some of the treasures he’d find in the slush pile. He seemed to love his job. He even dressed better for work.”
“No way,” I said.
“Well, he was never Idris Elba, but at least his suits were pressed,” she said.
“Greggie took over, and now the only thing Evan seems to care about is not making waves. Not getting fired. He’s a sniveling yes-man.
He may as well be in the movie business.
” She glanced at Tony. “No offense, Antoine,” she said.
“None taken,” he said. “But I will say we’re all pretty well dressed.”
“Antoine?” I said.
“That’s right, Sonya,” Tony said.
I suppressed a smile. “Good memory.”
“Just because I haven’t seen you in a while doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten you.” Tony wore an immaculately tailored charcoal suit—probably a Zegna—with a pale blue silk tie that brought out his eyes. “You’re pretty unforgettable, you know.”
I glanced at Spike. He raised an eyebrow in a way that said, Oh, yeah. Now I remember who this guy is.
“How’s Jesse?” Tony asked.
“We’re broken up.”
He grinned. “Playing the field, then?”
“God, how old are you?”
“Hey,” he said. “It’s a timeless expression.”
“Actually, I’m with Richie now.”
The grin dissolved. “Your ex-husband.”
“Ex and now future,” I said.
“I’m the maid of honor,” Spike said.
Tony took a moment, digesting the information. “Richie’s a lucky guy,” he said.
“I’ll make sure and let him know,” I said.
“I have no doubt you will,” Tony said.
I felt my cheeks flush. I hated them for that. “Tell me what you know about Natalie Blythe, Tony,” I said.
“What?”
“Sunny thinks she might be Book Babe,” Melanie Joan said.
Tony stared at her. “Seriously?”
“I know,” she said. “That was my response, too, but Sunny made a convincing case.”
He turned to me.
“I can make it again, if you want,” I said. “The case, I mean.”
“Who is Natalie Blythe?” Spike said.
Before I could answer, there was a soft knock on the door. Spike opened it, and Harold walked in. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Hart,” he said. “But I thought you might like your phone back. It’s been very active.”
“Who’s been calling?”
“Texting,” Harold said.
“Texting?” Melanie Joan said.
Harold removed the phone from his pocket delicately, as though it were a ticking bomb. He handed it to Melanie Joan face down. During this process, which took about five seconds, the phone vibrated at least ten times.
Melanie Joan turned it over. The color drained from her face. “My God,” she whispered.
“What is it, MJ?” Spike said.
Melanie Joan’s gaze shifted from his face to Tony’s before resting on mine. “I think I’ve been doxed,” she said.