Page 62 of Deadline

“Did you ever see one?”

“No, because, remember, everything was destroyed in the house fire.”

“Did he ever take you to Ohio to tour his hometown, show you the site of the home that burned, visit the cemetery where his parents were buried?”

“They were cremated. He didn’t keep their remains. He wasn’t sentimental or nostalgic. He told me that, when he left Ohio, he left for good and never had a desire to return, not even to high-school class reunions.”

“Did he say why?”

“The memories were too sad. He dealt with them by severing any and all ties.”

“He didn’t have one single shred of something that linked him to his parents? Nothing to indicate what they and his childhood had been like?”

“Why are you fixated on this?”

“I’m interested.”

“But why? It’s ancient history. And what does his childhood have to do with anything else?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. His parents could have impacted him in ways that even you’re unaware of.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Of course they did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because parents do.”

“Did yours?”

“Yes.” He shot the rest of his whiskey and set the tumbler on the table. “Just like you’ll influence Hunter and Grant, like your dad influenced you. From something as simple as what goes into a good meat loaf to the not-so-simple. Religion. Culture. How you should vote. Every damn thing you think or believe, your reactions, your behavior, were partially shaped by who and what your parents were.”

“Genetics versus environment isn’t a new controversy.”

“I don’t think it’s one versus the other. I think it’s a blend.”

“Why are you so hung up on Jeremy’s blend?”

“Because when I write about somebody, I want to know these things.”

He had admitted to carefully observing individuals in an effort to learn what made them tick. Gauging by the stories she’d read online, he did more than that when he wrote about a person. He provided his readers a cross-section of their mind and soul. Which was disconcerting.

“Are you going to write about me?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“If you do, will you dissect me and hang me out there for all to see?”

“In order to do that, I would need to know things about you.”

“You already do.”

“Not enough. Not nearly.”

“What else could you possibly wish to know?”

He stared into her eyes for a ponderous moment, and that should have warned her of what was coming. It didn’t. She was totally unprepared.