He opened his mouth to ask about the size of the household staff, but stopped himself. She probably had definite ideas about how this process was supposed to go, and getting the final stamp of approval from the old man would be part of it.

Hopefully Arlington would not take one look at him and change his mind. It could happen. Weren’t the rich famous for their whims and impulses?

Their footsteps were buried in the faded roses of the Aubusson carpet. The scent of pipe tobacco drifted from down the long hall.

Mrs. Truscott stopped before a closed walnut panel door and tapped softly.

“Come in,” called a voice. Age blurred gender, but the accent was the distinctive one known as Locust Valley Lockjaw.

This was it. Griff squared his shoulders. Mrs. Truscott opened the door, delivered one final, disapproving look and departed.

Griff stepped inside the room.

It was probably a beautiful room—he had an impression of arched windows and a high ceiling—but Griff’s attention was focused on the spare, white-haired figure staring down at the star-shaped courtyard. Griff had a moment to wonder if Jarrett Arlington had watched him arrive, watched him sit vacillating in his car, watched him finally get up the nerve to knock on the door.

Arlington turned to face him. It seemed a very long moment before he took the pipe from his mouth. “Well? What do you think, Mr. Hadley?”

“The house? It looks exactly like the photographs.”

Grave blue eyes studied him from beneath formidable white brows. Jarrett Arlington was slim, slight and brown from a lifetime of sailing and golfing and whatever else the very rich did when they weren’t counting their money. Despite his considerable age—he was nearly ninety—he still had a full head of hair, which stood up cockatoo-like.

Griff waited for Arlington to say something like...Griff looked younger than his photo on the Banner Chronicle editorial staff page. Or just interrogate him about what he proposed to write and why he imagined he was qualified to tackle this story. One brief phone call wasn’t going to be enough to seal the deal—even if that was how it had seemed at the time.

But after another of those thoughtful pauses, Arlington said, “Hmm. I suppose it does. Did you drive all the way from Madison, Wisconsin, in that Karmann Ghia?”

“I did, yeah,” Griff said.

“And how many times did you break down?”

“I didn’t. Not once.” That was because he had completely rebuilt the engine six months ago, but Arlington wasn’t going to be interested in hearing how Griff had spent two years lovingly and painstakingly restoring a vintage car.

“Hmm.” Arlington continued to appraise him with that keen blue gaze.

It wasn’t his imagination, right? This was a strange interview.

Arlington seemed to come to a decision. He said briskly, “I’d better tell you, the rest of the family is none too pleased about our arrangement and this book you’re going to write.”

Here it comes. Griff opened his mouth, though he wasn’t sure what he could say to convince Arlington over the protests of his nearest and dearest.

But Arlington made a dismissive gesture. “Don’t worry. I’ll handle them. I want this book. I want this case reopened. If anybody gives you any trouble, you refer them to me. I’ve instructed them all you’re to have complete access, complete cooperation.”

“Thank you.” Arlington made it sound like he’d given orders to his corporate staff rather than his children.

“How long do you think it’ll take you to write the book?”

Was Arlington imagining Griff would write the book this week? “I don’t—I’m not sure.” He stopped himself from admitting that he’d never written a book before. Not that Arlington didn’t already know that, but there was no point in emphasizing Griff’s lack of experience.

“Merely curious. It doesn’t matter,” Arlington said.

“I’ll do my best to bring the case back to public attention.”

A light kindled in Arlington’s eyes. “If Brian is out there somewhere, I want him to know we haven’t forgotten him. We haven’t given up.”

“Uh...right.” Brian was dead. Odell Johnson was sitting in prison right now, convicted of Brian’s kidnapping and murder.

“Either way, I want the truth. I don’t care how painful it is.”

Griff liked the courage of that. One of the theories was that the kidnapping had been an inside job. He said, “I’ll do my best to get the truth for you.”

Arlington smiled. “I know you will, my boy. Do you have any questions for me? I mean, before you settle in and start dragging out the family skeletons?” The warmth of that smile transformed him. Griff could see the shade of the heartbreaker Arlington had reportedly been in his youth.

“Is it okay if I take photos?”

“Take all the photos you want. Pierce will have to approve everything anyway.”

Griff repeated uncertainly, “Pierce?”

“Pierce Mather. My, er, man of affairs.”

Man of affairs? Did people really say that?

“The family lawyer.” Arlington chuckled, so maybe it was supposed to be a joke.

“Oh, that Pierce,” Griff said. “The one who told me not to write the book.”

“That’s the one.” Arlington was definitely amused. “Yes, Pierce can be a bit overbearing. He means well. Pierce will look everything over just to make sure nothing damaging or defamatory is inadvertently published.”

Griff had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, and here it was, right on schedule, delivering a hard, swift kick to his ass. “Pierce is going to have final approval of my work?”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” Arlington said.

“Because we didn’t agree to that. I can’t—won’t—work under that kind of restriction.”

The disappointment was sickening, but no way was Griff going to write some kind of corporate-approved publicity piece or whatever it was the Arlingtons had in mind. If staying on the estate and having access to these people meant he couldn’t write the book he wanted to write, then he’d rent a room in town and get his interviews the regular way, the way he’d planned on writing the book before Arlington had proposed this too-good-to-be-true idea of staying at the estate.

He should have known. Should have realized a wealthy, powerful family like the Arlingtons would try to control the spin of a book like his. He was stupid not to have seen this coming.

“No, no,” Arlington was saying hurriedly in answer to whatever he read in Griff’s expression. “It’s not what you’re thinking. No one is going to censor what you write or attempt to...to restrict the freedom of the press. It isn’t anything like that. Nothing related to Brian’s kidnapping will be off-limits to you, but staying on the estate you’ll be privy to potentially sensitive information that has no bearing on the case or your story. That’s the sort of thing Pierce will be looking for.”

Put like that, it sounded reasonable. Griff still felt wary. He had spoken to Pierce Mather once on the phone—for as long as it had taken Mather to shut him up and shoot him down. The words sue your ass had featured prominently. Griff had a gut feeling he and Mather might not see eye to eye on what constituted information with “no bearing.”

As if reading his thoughts, Arlington said almost coaxingly, “Mr. Hadley—Griffin—you have my word you won’t be asked to sign a non-disclosure nor any kind of contract. This is a gentlemen’s agreement between you and me. Agreed?” He held out his hand.

Griff studied Arlington’s face, considered that charming, part-rueful, part-willful smile. Arlington was a man used to getting what he wanted, no question. But there was something almost kind in his gaze, and he seemed sincere.

Nothing easier than convincing someone who wanted to believe you. Griff grimaced inwardly and reached out to shake hands.