Chapter Four

Caitlin was annoyed with herself for accepting the offer of coffee. Especially from some jerk who had just scared the bejesus out of her, twice. And why had he lied about starting a job at The Beacon? She was seriously contemplating walking away when a waitress appeared and corralled them to a table.

As soon as they’d both ordered, she studied him. He was starting to look vaguely familiar. When he examined his palms, Caitlin could see dirt in the red grazes. She’d certainly done a number on him.

He stood up. ‘Would you mind if I just quickly wash my hands?’ He went up to the counter and, after speaking with a waitress, headed in the direction she pointed.

Almost every pair of eyes in the café was glued to him as he walked. Jesus, he must be close on six feet five. Caitlin couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be that tall. People gawked at her because she was so short. Or maybe it was her red dreads.

She watched him closely when he returned to the table. He’d lost his usual beard but, up close, she was pretty sure it was him. Nobody else in the café seemed to recognise him – he was renowned for being very private, with no presence on social media, but she remembered seeing some photos that had found their way into a magazine. The short-cropped blond hair looked the same, and the hazel eyes. She had to admit he was even hotter in real life – if his nose didn’t have that big bump he might have been cast as Thor.

He smiled at her.

Huh, you can smile all you like, she thought. Other women might melt on the spot when one of Australia’s most eligible bachelors smiled at them, but there was no way she was letting the poncy prick get through her well-honed defences.

‘Do you have a name?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Several. In fact, five.’

‘Five?’

‘I may be short, but I have a long name. Siobhán Caitlin Clodagh Maeve O’Shaughnessy. Five names no Australian can spell. Clodagh came from my mother and my grandmothers were Siobhán and Maeve. No idea where Caitlin came from, but it’s my favourite, so I’ve always gone by that.’

She stopped herself. Jesus. She must have delivered that answer a million times, but what was she doing giving such personal information to this prick?

He said, ‘O’Shaughnessy. You’re Patrick’s daughter?’

She nodded. ‘So, five names, which makes you look pretty pathetic with a measly three.’

‘Three?’

‘Yes, three.’ He gave nothing away, so she continued. ‘I’m good with faces.’

‘But we’ve never met.’

Caitlin stared at him. Either he was being a dick, or he seriously thought she wouldn’t recognise him without the beard. Probably he was just being a dick.

She said, ‘I don’t play games, so don’t give me any more bullshit about being here for a job that doesn’t exist. What are you really doing here, Jack William Harris? That’s William after your grandfather, of course, and Jack presumably was a drunken stab in the baby-name book when it fell open at “J”.’

His smile faded.

‘Are you here to close down The Beacon?’ Caitlin asked. She watched him intently. She’d spent long enough in criminal courts to be a very good judge of when someone was lying.

His reply was emphatic. ‘No.’

Jesus, she thought, he was good. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘My father would never close The Beacon.’

Although it had been nearly two months since she’d last been allowed to work, she felt as though she was back there, in court, interrogating a witness in the stand. ‘Then why did Harris Media send a letter to my father two weeks ago stating his employment was to be terminated? Twenty years he’s worked for the company, and you give him four weeks’ notice.’

He looked genuinely surprised. ‘Why would my father sack Patrick? I was sent here to work alongside him, to learn as much as I could about journalism, from one of our best.’

‘You claim to have no knowledge of any such letter?’

‘Correct.’

‘I put it to you, Mr Harris, that you are lying.’

His lips had tightened into a firm slit, and furrows appeared on his brow for the first time.

Caitlin didn’t care that she was riling him. ‘Dad showed me the letter. It was signed by one Jack William Harris. Three names. Your names. You, Mr Harris, are full of shit.’

She rose to leave, but her way was blocked by their waitress bringing a large slice of pecan pie, topped with a burning candle. The chef had written ‘Happy Birthday’ in berry coulis on the white porcelain plate. Another waiter arrived with their coffee.

Caitlin sank back into her chair, trapped, and torn. Why did the prick have to be nice when she was so pissed off at him? He was the first person to acknowledge her birthday – her own father hadn’t even phoned. Her irritation retreated from the red zone to a slightly less volatile orange.

‘Happy birthday,’ said Jack.

She sat, fuming, watching the candle burn down before extinguishing it with a quick gust.

He said, ‘I didn’t write that letter. I don’t know who sent it, or why.’

‘Why would I believe you? Harris Media has closed pretty much every other regional paper it owns. Or flipped them to digital.’

‘Because this was my father’s first paper. It was his launchpad to a massive business empire. So, unless he sells out, The Beacon is likely to be the last newspaper still in print come the apocalypse.’

‘Then why are you really here? Dad doesn’t need you. With all due respect – no let me retract that – with no respect at all, you might be an executive director of a media company, but you have no qualifications or experience as a journalist. Perhaps you could make the tea?’

Jack didn’t answer.

She persisted. ‘Suit yourself, but Dad will tell me anyway.’

Jack looked around, then leaned forward, speaking quietly. ‘I’ve been sent here by my father. I think I’ve upset him.’

‘Derr, obviously.’

He grinned. ‘It could be a lot worse than here. We still own The Broken Hill Chronicle.’

She suppressed a smile. ‘And what about Dad? Does he still have his job? You’re not sending him to some shit-hole in the desert?’

‘Hell no. I need him here, because, as you so gleefully pointed out, I have no idea what I’m doing. Besides …’ He leaned forward and whispered, ‘I’m a bit dyslexic. But don’t tell anyone that.’

She laughed. ‘A dyslexic wannabe journalist, this is going to be good. Dad will have you on toast.’

Caitlin reached for her water glass but bumped it off the table, sending it smashing to the floor. The shattered glass scattered everywhere. Shit. That was the second time this week. It was probably nothing, she thought – but her hands started shaking and she felt the pinprick of tears in her eyes. All heads had turned in their direction and she heard a titter of laughter.

‘Are you okay?’ asked Jack

‘What?’

‘Are you all right?’

Her response was curt. ‘Fine.’ She snatched at her phone and checked the messages. Nothing from her father. She apologised when the waitress materialised with a brush and pan.

Jack pointed to her untouched pie. ‘Don’t you want that?’

‘No.’ She folded her arms across her chest. ‘I’m allergic to nuts.’

Jack commandeered her plate and helped himself. Between mouthfuls, he said, ‘Is it unusual for your father not to answer his phone?’

‘He’s a journalist, what do you think?’

‘Should we see if he’s back at The Beacon? If he’s not there, maybe we could call around to his house, just to check on him?’

She was becoming increasingly concerned about her father. Where the hell was he? She needed a plan beyond repeatedly calling his mobile, and here was someone offering to help, someone who might have wheels bigger than her skateboard’s. Someone being nice.

She hurriedly rose from the table. ‘Let’s go.’