scruffy look gave Gretchen a sudden attack of butterflies. She had never met a preacher who looked so little like a minister and so much like a man.
Goodness. His eyes were blue.
“Got a minute?” he asked in that quietly compelling voice.
She took a second to casually toss an empty yogurt container into the trash can before pushing back from her desk. “Is this about last night’s story?”
Even though she’d aired nothing but facts, Gretchen fully expected him to be unhappy with the report.
He sidestepped the question with one of his own. “Do you blame me and the mission for what happened to Maddy?”
The memory of her sister’s untimely death, never far away, rushed in like a cruel wave of fresh pain. She closed her eyes, quickly collecting the loose ends of her composure before looking back at him. “Leave Maddy out of this.”
Ian pushed off the flimsy partition and moved closer. Gretchen’s pulse gave a funny jump of fear, but she couldn’t quite pinpoint the reason. Was she afraid of him? Or of the odd reaction she was having to him this morning? Whichever, she refused to cower.
Her story had been fair. She’d reported what she’d witnessed, and from the way her e-mail inbox had overflowed, the people of New Orleans wanted to know more. Even if Ian was angry, what could he do in a crowded TV station? Laser her to death with his startling eyes?
He startled her even further by going to his haunches next to her chair so that they were eye level. The action stirred a vague scent of laundry soap and new shoes. For a second, she thought he was going to touch her, but when she stiffened, he placed his hand on the edge of her desk instead.
“It’s okay to talk about Maddy,” he said gently. “It’s even okay to be angry about what happened. Shoot, I’m angry about it; you have to be.”
His kindness was so unexpected that the horrible grief threatened once more to well up and flow out like a geyser. She needed to talk. She needed to make sense of her sister’s life and death. And she needed someone or something to blame for the unspeakable waste.
With sheer force of will, she staunched the threatening tears. “Don’t give me your counseling mumbo jumbo. I’m not one of your runaways.”
He pinned her with a long, quiet look, holding her gaze until she fidgeted and glanced away.
“No harm or insult meant, Gretchen. Everybody hurts.”
When she remained there, staring inanely at the slide show of monster trucks on her screen saver, the preacher pushed to his feet and stepped away. Gretchen breathed a sigh of relief. He was too close, both physically and emotionally, and she didn’t want to lose control in front of a man she was investigating. What kind of objectivity would that be?
“So, exactly why did you come here this morning, Reverend? To complain about the report? Or what?”
He answered with a smile that probably melted everyone else. “I have a complaint and a suggestion. Your report wasn’t fair.”
“Viewers have a right to know the truth.”
“That’s all I’m asking. Report the whole truth, all of it. Show what we really do at Isaiah House.”
“Meaning?”
“Come to the mission. Spend more time with us.”
That was already in her plans. She propped an elbow on her desk and pointed at him. “On your terms? Or mine?”
“I was hoping we could make a deal.”
“Why, Reverend, you shock me. Making deals. Isn’t that rather unreligious?”
“I shock my mother sometimes, too, but she still loves me.”
There he went again, trying to use that sweet, Southern boy charm.
“You actually have a mother?” She bit the inside of her lip, wishing she hadn’t said that. The flippant remark sounded too conversational, too friendly.
“I have a great mother up in Baton Rouge. She makes the best gumbo north of New Orleans. When Dad was alive—” He stopped as if remembering this was not a normal chat between friends. Funny that both of them kept venturing into side conversations that had nothing to do with the topic at hand.
Gretchen tapped a fingernail on her desktop. Time to get down to business. Just because they’d talked at Maddy’s funeral didn’t mean she wanted to be buddies. “Okay, then. What’s your deal?”
“You come back to the mission. Not a one-shot deal like last time, but over a period of days whenever you have a free hour or two. No photographer. Volunteer, take part, follow me around. See what I do.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. A chance on the inside to see if his religion bordered on mind control? This was too good to be true.
“I’ve heard some negative rumors about the mission,” she admitted. “I plan to check them out.”
“I’ve heard them, too. That’s why I want you to come see for yourself. All I’m asking is that you report the truth. I’ll give you access. You give an unbiased report to the citizens of New Orleans about the work at Isaiah House.”
This was too easy. What was he up to? She decided to test the waters and find out how much access he planned to give her. “What about your followers? Can I talk to them?”
Something flickered across his face that she couldn’t interpret. Her antenna elevated to alert. Now she was getting somewhere. What was he hiding? Why was he so hesitant to let her talk to the people inside the mission?
“They are not my followers. As I told you before, they’re vulnerable, and I won’t allow anything to impede their healing. You can only talk to them on one condition.”
“Being?” He’d gone ballistic when she’d confronted the trembling girl at the mission. She didn’t want a repeat performance of that, but she was going to talk to that girl and find out why she was so afraid.
“You ask their permission and mine, in advance.”
Interesting. Did he want to prep them first? Warn them of what not to say?
The demand sounded suspiciously like something Brother Gordon often did. She and Maddy had been taught all the correct answers to give about the commune. And all the specifics to avoid discussing with “outsiders.”
Energy bubbled up inside. She was on to something here. If she played her cards right, she could have the investigative news series of the year and find out if anything had happened to her sister inside that mission.
Before she could voice her agreement a male head sporting a tiny gold earring poked inside her cubicle. “Hey, Gretchen.”
The preppy speaker waved a pair of tickets in his hands. “Got ’em.”
For a second she forgot all about her visitor. In excitement, she leaped from her chair and squealed, “I can’t believe it. Let me see.”
She
