disappointingly brief. Usually, when you throw a wrong assumption at a witness, the witness responds by inadvertently giving you at least a piece of the right one.
It’s obvious that Trent Turner has been through many a negotiation before. In fact, I sense that he’s been through this very negotiation before. He did say those documents and people, as in multiple. Are other families being held hostage as well?
“I’m not leaving until I find out the truth.”
“There’s popcorn.” His attempt at humor only serves to stoke the fire in my belly.
“This isn’t a joke.”
“I realize that.” For the first time, he seems slightly sympathetic to my plight. His arms uncross. A hand runs roughly through his hair. Thick brown lashes close over his eyes. Stress lines form around the edges, hinting at a life that was once considerably more high-pressure than this one. “Look, I promised my grandfather…on his deathbed. And trust me—it’s better this way.”
I don’t trust him. That’s the point. “I’ll go after them legally if I have to.”
“My grandfather’s files?” A sardonic laugh indicates that he doesn’t take to threats very well. “Good luck with that. They were his property. They’re my property now. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.”
“Not if this could damage my family.”
The look on his face tells me I’ve struck close to the truth. I feel sick. My family does have a deep, dark secret. What is it?
Trent lets out a long sigh. “It’s just…This really is for the best. That’s all I can tell you.” The phone rings, and he answers it, seeming to hope the interruption will drive me away. The caller has a million questions about Edisto beach rentals and activities on the island. Trent takes the time to talk about everything from fishing for black drum to finding mastodon fossils and arrowheads on the beach. He gives the caller a lovely history lesson about wealthy families who resided on Edisto before the War Between the States. He talks about fiddler crabs and pluff mud and harvesting oysters.
He pops fried shrimp into his mouth, savors them while he listens. Turning his back to me, he leans against the counter.
I return to my original seat by the door, perch on the edge, and stare at his back while he offers an endless litany about Botany Bay. He seems to describe the four-thousand-acre preserve inch by inch. I tap my foot and drum my fingers. He pretends not to notice, but I catch him peeking at me from the corner of his eye.
I pull out my phone and thumb through email. If worse comes to worst, I’ll scroll through Instagram or dawdle around with the wedding ideas my mom and Bitsy want me to look at on Pinterest.
Trent bends over a desktop computer, looks up information, talks about rentals and dates.
The customer finally settles on a time and place for the ideal vacation. Trent confesses that he’s not the one who handles logging the rental bookings. His secretary is home with a sick baby, but he’ll email her, and she’ll take care of the confirmations.
Finally, after what seems like at least thirty minutes of chatterboxing, he straightens to his full height and looks in my direction. A staredown ensues. This man is, quite possibly, as stubborn as I am. Unfortunately, he can probably hold out longer. He has food.
Hanging up the phone, he taps a knuckle to his lips, shakes his head, and sighs. “It won’t matter how long you’re here. It’s not going to change anything.” His frustration is starting to show. I’m getting somewhere. I’ve got him rattled now.
I proceed calmly to the popcorn machine and the watercooler and help myself.
Thusly equipped for the sit-in, I wander back to my seat.
He yanks an office chair into position behind the computer, sits down, and disappears behind a four-drawer file cabinet.
At the first taste of popcorn, my stomach lets out an indelicately loud roar.
The shrimp basket suddenly appears on the edge of the counter. Manly fingers shove it my way, but he doesn’t say a word. The kindness makes me feel guilty, even more so as, with a resolute thump, he adds an unopened soda. I’m undoubtedly ruining his perfectly good day.
I help myself to a little handful and return to my spot. Guilt and fried shrimp go quite nicely together, it turns out.
Computer keys click. Another sigh comes from behind the file cabinet. More time passes. The desk chair squeals in protest, as if he’s rocking back in it. “Don’t you