Page 66 of The Chain House

“Before what?”

“I don’t know what Batise is telling you in there,” she said. “I don’t trust him.”

“Right now, I don’t know who to trust,” he said. “I gotta go.”

“Sam, wait. Was it ever a thing, you and your father, placing your hand on a glass window … and he’d place his on the other side?”

Silence.

And then, with a weak voice, he said, “I gotta go.”

And he hung up.

Jennifer stared at her phone for a beat before sliding it into the pocket of her pants. She wiped tears from her cheeks, got back into the truck.

Carl said, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she said, but it was clear she wasn’t.

“I’ll text him.”

“Don’t. He needs to process it.”

Carl sighed, watched out his window, and then abruptly opened his door.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“That car,” he said, one leg outside the truck and one leg in. He nodded toward a car across the lot. “That’s who was following us earlier. Son of a bitch.”

Carl got out without closing his truck door and headed across the parking lot.

Jennifer ran to catch up with him; they didn’t need the attention from a spontaneous parking lot confrontation. She didn’t even know what car he was heading toward until a balding man with glasses, wearing a crisp white button-down tucked into belted blue jeans, got out of a forest-green Mercedes and stood with his hands up, as if cautioning Carl’s aggressive approach.

“You following us?” Carl asked like he was heading straight for a punch.

Jennifer said, “Carl stop.” Luckily, he did, because the other man now stood in a fighting stance of his own, albeit a rather pathetic one. Jennifer recognized him as the same man who had made a grab at Sam on his way into the prison before the interview. She stepped in front of Carl and said, “Down, Cujo.” And to the man, “What do you want?”

“Look,” he said, again holding up his hands as a peace offering. “My name is—”

“I know who you are,” Jennifer said.

Carl said, “I don’t.”

Jennifer said, “Harold Martin. Wrote the book Mastermind … on Sal Batise.” She thought about saying bestselling book but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Why are you following us?”

Harold scratched his scalp. “I don’t know … I was desperate, I guess. If I’m being honest, I’m still ticked off I didn’t get the interview.”

“Because you consider yourself the foremost expert on The Collective and Sal Batise?”

He didn’t deny it. “And I had to know … why he picked that kid.”

“He’s twenty-six,” Jennifer said. “He’s not a kid.”

“And the dude has a name,” Carl said. “It’s Sam Harper. And his documentary is gonna swallow your book whole and shit it out into little pieces.”

“Carl, please,” Jennifer said, “this isn’t a contest.” She stepped toward Harold Martin, who appeared older and more defeated than he had seconds before. “Look,” she said. “If you’re here as a reporter, we’ve got nothing to say. If your feelings are hurt, I’m sorry. So if you’d kindly stop following us, it would be much appreciated.”

She started to turn away, when Martin said, “I’m sorry to hear about your mom.”