12. Caleph
12
CALEPH
“W hy didn’t you just do the interview?” she asks, giving me an irritated look across the desk. She has a notepad and pen in front of her, but she hasn’t committed a single word to paper. I don’t know what her process is, but I’m assuming she knows what she’s doing if she was able to fluff her way through an article by mentioning, no less than four times, mind you, my unproven connection to the mafia.
“I don’t do interviews.”
“Yet here we are,” she snaps.
I regard her with steady eyes. I would’ve thought as a journalist that she’d be jumping to cover the scoop of a lifetime. Not this cookie. She’s fighting me at every turn.
When she’d argued she couldn’t just disappear for days while we conducted this exposé, I offered her a disposable phone to call her boss. Apparently, she’d just narrowly avoided getting fired before my article launched her into the stratosphere. Plus, MY article, the one she wrote to discredit me, I remind her, has opened a world of interviews with other publications, which she can’t just flake on.
“I read the work you did on that article with next to no information . What if I were to give you something so big, you’ll have publications bidding on you?”
Ariadne’s head snaps up in interest. She’s ambitious, if nothing else. And instinctively I understand that if there’s anyone that can convince the world of what I want to say, it’s her.
After she makes the call to her boss, we come back to my office and wait for dinner to arrive. I have every intention of completing this interview in as little time as possible, if only to be rid of her sooner rather than later. After she gets what she needs for a stellar interview and I hand her the evidence I need her to see, she’ll be on her merry way. She’ll publish the article and I’ll never have to deal with her again. For the time being, I have to treat her with kid gloves. She’s proving to be a handful with her petulance and snarky comebacks. It’s admirable for one reason only; I’ve never met a person who wasn’t terrified of me, but she seems to bend every rule as she gives as good as she gets.
“So… is there where you live?” she asks, looking around the office as she takes another bite of her pasta. The girl can eat.
“I live here and there.”
She gives me a look that tells me she’s fed up with my answers. I haven’t answered one single question straight; my answer is always vague and open-ended, and this seems to be annoying the hell out of her.
“What’s the point of me being here if you’re not going to answer my questions?” she asks. “I don’t want to be dissecting your words or guessing your truths."
She’s an angry little tyrant as she waves her fork around in the air, brandishing it like a weapon. Her angry grunt as she drops her fork with a clattering bang and sits back in her chair makes me smirk. The timid mouse is putting on a show for me, projecting her faux anger to show me she’s not afraid of me. I wait for her to pick up her fork again and watch her with unusual interest as she shovels another load of pasta into her mouth. When she lifts her head to look at me, her eyes are fire. They’re hazel and no matter her mood, they seem to always be ablaze with vitality.
“Why were you crying earlier?”
Her hand stops in midair and her lips part in surprise at my question. She’s surprised that I noticed, and even more shocked that I want to know.
“Because, asshole, your goons had kidnapped me off the street and stuffed me into a car…”
“You were crying before they picked you up. What happened today?”
I can’t even believe I’m asking this question. I’m usually not receptive to learning anything personal about others. Know no evil, fear no evil and all that.
“You’re the subject here, remember?”
* * *
When my phone rings, I excuse myself and stand in a corner away from her to take Seven’s call. We’ve made no progress on the interview, and I can feel the frustration seeping through her skin and pouring into the room around us.
“What have you got for me?” I ask him.
Seven starts to roll off a list of facts, and I listen intently to what he’s saying for any tidbit I can use against her. I need to understand everything about her before I go any further. Seven lists off her basic bio and physical attributes; all of which is apparent except her age – twenty-seven years. He names the college she attended, previous publications she’s worked for, and no known medical conditions.
“Private life?” I ask, when he pauses. I know he would have dug that far; he just didn’t think I’d be interested. But I’d be very interested to know what sort of man could attract and hold that firebrand’s attention.
“Boyfriend of two years – recently separated,” he reveals.
“How long ago?”
“A few weeks, going off social media.”
The surprise is when he tells me who her ex is. “Doctor Rand Holloway. Works out of Mercy General.”
Something clicks into place, a distant memory begging to be unearthed. My mind gallops back in time to a few weeks ago to the day when I visited Durian Accardi at that hospital. I knew her face looked familiar. And even then, she was distressed and had been crying when she slammed past me like a pit bull on steroids. What were the chances that we would meet up again like this?
* * *
I’ve never been one to believe in fate or destiny. I don’t even believe in coincidences. But it’s too perfect, too ironic, for Ariadne to have come into my life a mere few weeks ago then disappear, only to resurface again in the guise of a journalist seeking to make her fame and fortune off the back of my name. It’s almost too perfect.
My blood boils to a simmer. I’ve played nice with her up until now to get what I want, but it would seem that I’m the one who’s been taken for a ride. Had she been following me that night? Planted by someone to follow me? I wouldn’t have suspected a thing. I remember how she brushed up against me, almost knocking me over, and wonder now if that had all been an act so she could plant something on me. A listening device, perhaps? Maybe a tracker? Was her being here now all part of an elaborate plan that was concocted so the FBI could track me to this vessel? Were they hovering nearby even now?
I glance her way; she’s stopped eating and she’s looking at me with fear in her eyes. Does she know that I suspect her? Is that why she’s fearful? Does she know the game is up?
She sets her hands on the table and pushes up from her chair. She must see something in my eyes that freaks her the hell out, because without warning, she darts toward the door and starts to run.