you offered them drinks, Lanny?” Boatwright bellowed, seemingly incapable of volume control.
“She did,” Trembley said. “We’re good.”
“Great. Please take some seats. Team, make way for those who protect and serve. I’d introduce you to everyone but since it seems like you’re here for me, I won’t burden you with trying to remember their names.”
Boatwright’s team stepped aside so that Jessie and Trembley could sit down. As they did, Jessie kept her attention on Boatwright, who stared right back at her through dark, observant eyes.
“I assume you want this to be a private conversation?” he said.
“That would be preferable,” Trembley told him.
“Of course. But before my team heads out, maybe I could introduce Ms. Hunt to Jeff Jansen here. He’s my head of development.”
A tall, gangly guy with tightly cropped red hair and horn-rimmed glasses nodded at her.
“Hi?” Jessie said, perplexed. Jeff nodded back at her without speaking.
“Jeff here is in charge of securing all the rights to our prospective projects. And I have to say, Ms. Hunt, you are a walking, talking film project waiting to happen.”
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Jeff, go,” Boatwright ordered.
Before she knew what was happening, the gangly guy was in her face, half-bouncing with unbridled energy.
“Ms. Hunt, everyone knows your story,” Jeff began, his voice boisterous with enthusiasm. “Your serial killer father butchers your mother and leaves you for dead in an isolated, snow-covered cabin.”
Jessie glanced over at Trembley uneasily and saw that he was as stunned by this turn of events as she was. Jeff Jansen continued, undeterred by her discomfort.
“You amazingly overcome that trauma to get an advanced degree in forensic psychology,” he went on, somehow getting even more exercised, “before you have to deal with a sociopathic husband who kills his mistress, frames you for it, and then attempts to murder you when you uncover his plot. After that, you face off with not just your father, who’s returned after years in hiding, but an escaped serial killer obsessed with you who wants—”
“Jeff, is it?” Jessie interrupted. “I’m familiar with my life story. Maybe you can skip to the end.”
“Right, okay,” Jeff said, thrown slightly off but quickly regaining his momentum. “We think your story would make an amazing film franchise. Each movie could follow a different case you’re investigating while also showing your ongoing battles with the killers out to get you. In short, we’d like to secure your life rights. Do you have an agent?”
Everyone in the room was staring at her greedily, nearly salivating as they awaited her answer. Even Trembley looked intrigued.
“Listen, Jeff,” she said slowly. “I appreciate the interest. Really, it’s flattering in a bizarre sort of way. But I’m actually looking to lower my profile these days, not raise it. There are a number of people out there who aren’t as enthused about my accomplishments as you seem to be. I don’t need to give them another reason to hate me.”
Jeff barely paused a beat before responding.
“I totally respect that,” he said. “But imagine the power you could have to inspire, to show young women who’ve suffered challenging childhoods what they can achieve if they have your pluck and determination.”
Jessie looked around. Boatwright and his team all stood, still taut with excitement, as if Jeff had made a convincing case that would surely change her mind. She decided that she’d been patient enough.
“Folks, no matter how plucky you think I am, I’m here to discuss someone else’s life story, and more specifically, how it ended. And while you all may not think it’s poor form to try to strike a development deal with someone investigating a murder, I do. So if everyone other than Mr. Boatwright could step out, we have a job to do here.”
Jeff looked over at Boatwright like a son who knew he’d disappointed his stern father. The boss gave him and the others a clipped nod, after which everyone scurried out without another word. Lanny closed the door after them, leaving Jessie and Trembley alone with Boatwright, who sat back down. He stared at them, no longer smiling, but with cold intensity, like a mountain lion taking stock of its prey. After a long pause, he spoke.
“I guess this is when the fun really starts.”
Jessie felt like the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped twenty degrees.
“Mr. Boatwright,” Trembley started, deciding not to directly address the man’s comment, “we’re here about the death of Corinne Weatherly.”
“Do I need to call my attorney?” Boatwright asked, his tone playful but borderline combative.