Chloe took a strand of hair and wrapped it around her finger. “I only ask the questions people want answers to. Why doesn’t Essie do publicity any longer, or go to award ceremonies? One minute she’s married to a hot fellow writer, and the next she goes all Howard Hughes. So, who’s the real Essie?”

Liv bristled. “She’s just a normal person.”

“Normal. Ha, right,” Chloe said. “As normal as a famous recluse can be.”

Liv didn’t want to get into a battle of words. She could spar with Chloe all day, and it wouldn’t get her anywhere. “How’s your article going?” she said. “How do these things work?”

The journalist tilted her head. “I come up with ideas, discuss them with my editor and work on several stories at a time. I’m hooked on this one, though. My friend the security guy has never spoken to Essie in the ten years she’s lived here. He sees her scurrying out of the building sometimes, and into a taxi. She returns after a few days. But he hasn’t seen her for months...”

“I’ve told you, she’s working away. Just what is it you want?”

“The story that makes my career,” Chloe said. “I don’t have any formal qualifications or training. I’m fed up watching everyone advance around me, while I’m not getting anywhere quick.”

Liv knew the feeling from working at Platinum and for the Cardinals. She felt a slight buzz that Chloe hadn’t been to university either.

“I’ve got quotes about Essie that have been used before. I get titbits from someone at Peregrine, and a disgruntled ex-assistant. I’ve written a lot of my piece but need something bigger and fresher.” Chloe pursed her lips self-assuredly. “And I’m pretty sure I’ve found it.”

Liv saw ambition glinting in her eyes. It was something she’d started to feel for herself, too. She circled her glass so the ice cubes rattled. “What is it?” she said.

“Well, hon.” Chloe met her eyes. She made the silence that followed feel like forever. “I know you’ve been ghostwriting for Essie. I have evidence. Now I’d like to hear it from you. What’s the full story?”

Liv’s mind spun like a toy windmill. If Chloe thought she was writing for Essie, perhaps that wasn’t too bad. If she denied anything, Chloe would dig even deeper. She had to play things tactically. “Oh,” she said, pretending to look ashamed. “That.”

“Sorry. Game over. What will Essie’s readers make of it?” Chloe sang. “I’ve got my story.”