Page 104 of The Lie Maker

There were only two L Wilshires listed in the entire Boston area. Cayden made note of the addresses, then took a moment to consider what he was going to say should he happen to get the right person when he tried the numbers.

He called the first listing. It rang only twice before someone, an old woman by the sounds of it, picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Could I speak to Lana, please?”

“Who?”

“I’m calling for Lana Wilshire.”

“Wrong number.”

He went to the second listing. This time, a man answered.

“Yup?”

“Hi, could I speak to Lana, please?”

A sigh. “Lana Wilshire? The reporter?”

Cayden smiled. “That’s right. Could I speak to her, please?”

“For the five thousandth fucking time, this is not that L Wilshire. People calling here for her all the time. Gonna have to get an unlisted number. If you’re pissed about something she wrote, call the goddamn paper.”

The man hung up.

So, Cayden concluded, Lana Wilshire either had an unlisted number or, more likely, didn’t have a landline at all.

Cayden googled her name.

Dozens of bylined stories came up, as well as her Twitter account, which featured a picture of her. He went over to the site and found that she was a frequent tweeter, usually posting links to her stories on the paper’s website, and occasional comments on the news. They were generally observations, as opposed to caustic comments. Wilshire probably wanted to maintain an air of impartiality. It was clear from what Cayden had found so far that she was not an opinion columnist, but a provider of straightforward accounts of what was going on in the Boston area.

Now here was something interesting.

She’d written stories about that dead judge and that dead doctor. That shouldn’t come as a surprise. She and Jack had talked about Willard Bentley. While the stories weren’t speculative—no one was quoted saying the deaths were suspicious—it seemed possible Wilshire was digging into those deaths. Tacked onto the bottom of the stories was Wilshire’s email address, as though she was inviting people to send her tips.

Cayden scrolled through more of the Google results, hoping he might find an address for her. She might still be at Jack Givins’s place, but considering she didn’t live there, it was more likely she went home after Jack left on his mission. Hadn’t he heard her say something about being swamped? That she had work to do?

If Cayden couldn’t figure out a way to get to her, he needed to draw her to him. He returned to the paper’s website, called the main number. It was well past business hours, so he got an automated system. When he was given the option to connect to the newsroom, he took it.

“City desk,” a woman said.

“Lana Wilshire,” he said.

“Gone for the day.”

“Oh,” Cayden said, putting on his disappointed voice. “I really need to get in touch with her.”

“What’s this about?”

“It’s something I would have to discuss with her personally.”

“I’ll put you through to her voice mail.”

His call was transferred.

“Hello. You’ve reached Lana Wilshire. I check in regularly, so please leave a message.”