“Because no matter how much you pretend not to, I know how much you care about it. And I know what it will do to you if you quit before you’ve done everything you can.”

“Maybe you don’t know me as well as you believe you do. Ever think about that?”

Dean looked at him.

Quentin’s breath caught. Not the right thing to say. Too close to the truth.

“Quentin?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re stalling again.”

He felt a spark of relief and sighed heavily, dramatically. “I’m holding you to the getting laid thing.”

“You can hold me to whatever you want. But you have to listen to those messages first.”

Quentin forced a smile. He plodded back to his desk and picked up the burner. Listened to the next message—a woman who went to high school with the actress who portrayed April Cooper in the TV movie. He wasn’t sure he was physically capable of making it to the end of these messages. And then his own phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at the screen: Summer. “Shit,” he whispered. He’d never told Summer about the Sharkey interview.

“So?” she said after he picked up. “So?” He didn’t answer right away, so she said it again. “So?” Summer was set a few speeds faster than everyone else, and often used words as a bayonet, jabbing and jabbing. She was from New York City, and though she’d lived here for eight years now, she still hadn’t gotten used to the more relaxed rhythm. “Talk to me.”

“Um.”

“Is that a good um or a bad um?”

“I’m sorry, Summer.”

Dean put his book down. “I’ll give you your privacy,” he said.

“No. Stay.”

“I’m right here,” Summer said.

Dean nodded, picked up his book again, though Quentin knew he wasn’t so much reading it as putting a barrier between himself and Quentin’s business. Dean always made a point of not invading his space. But Quentin never minded. In fact, he appreciated it, growing up the way he had, almost always alone.

“I was talking to Dean,” he told Summer. “Not you.”

“Oh. So, what was the problem? Your grandfather wasn’t at home?”

“No, he was at home.”

“He refused to talk?”

“Oh, he talked.”

“Then that’s great!”

“No it isn’t.”

“Of course it is. If he was home and he spoke to you and you got it recorded, there’s absolutely no way that it isn’t great.”

Quentin said nothing—just plugged the phone into his laptop and played her the whole of the interview.

He hopped back on the phone expecting a long, awkward silence, or at least a pause. But his coproducer was as unfazed as ever. “His description of the shooting is pretty good. We can use that.”

“Summer.”

“My job is to be objective when you can’t be.”

“Summer.”