“Which Starbucks and when?”

I got up, leaving my sandwich on the table. “Help yourself. You don’t eat enough vegetables, and I’m leaving.” I picked up my purse, pulled out a ten-dollar bill, dropped it on the table and stalked out of the sandwich shop.

Afterward, I was sorry, but not sorry enough to call and apologize. Neither was I sorry enough to take his phone call later in the day. I was afraid if I did, the argument would start all over again, so I turned off my ringer. Since he didn’t leave a message, I decided to wait and call after the interview, the way I’d promised I would. I would apologize then, but I would tell him we both had to set boundaries, and mine started with my job.

At five-thirty I got a text from Quayle saying he was unavoidably delayed and asking if I could do the interview that evening about eight. Since I figured it would still be light outside, I agreed and shot Grant another email, then I went out for fast food and errands to waste the necessary time.

By the time I got to Starbucks a thunderstorm was raging, but an earthquake couldn’t have shaken Grant’s questions out of my head. As I closed my umbrella, my interview subject was easy to spot. He was sitting near the window gazing outside at the storm. I’d parked at the end of the next block specifically to keep my car out of sight, and even though I was soaked, I was glad I had. I went right to him and introduced myself.

John Quayle was passably handsome, with sandy blond hair and a wide chest. Still, time wasn’t going to be kind. He was twelve years my senior and his face and neck were already lined. His hairline was decidedly higher than I’d noted in photographs. Prison was no picnic.

“May I get you something?” I asked. “Cappuccino? A latte? Scone?”

“I’m good. But I’ll wait while you get something for yourself.”

I had just filled my body with fat, carbs and carbonation, but I wanted to appear casual. I got a cup of decaf and returned to the table with no intention of drinking it.

“I’m curious,” I said, as I took the seat across from him. “How did you know to contact me?”

“I figured the paper would get around to rehashing the past. And Misha Reynolds told me you talked to her. She gave me your email.”

Misha was the woman who had overheard Quayle fighting with the victim at the fund-raiser. His release from prison was partially due to her insistence she had been coerced by the police. I wondered if her change of heart had come about after agonized years of rehashing and twisting what she’d heard. Did she now hope that by doing Quayle this favor, she could make up for his years behind bars?

I leveled with him. “You weren’t on my list to interview. I’m an intern. They just let me do the basics.”