Chapter 15: The Skeptic Returns

The man on the shared stoop was wearing a blazer that had been chosen to look casual and a recorder that had been chosen to look like a phone.

Marcus saw him from his kitchen window on Friday morning. The man was standing too close to Wren's door, examining the threshold charm with the focused attention of someone who had already decided it was evidence. Marcus felt something cold settle in his stomach. He knew that posture. He had worked with people who had that posture.

He went downstairs.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

The man turned. He was younger than Marcus expected, maybe thirty, with the bright, predatory cheerfulness of a journalist who had not yet been told no enough times. "Marcus Cole?"

"You have the advantage."

"Daniel Reese. I used to work with David Chen at your old firm. He mentioned you were living in Brooklyn now."

Marcus did not move. "What do you want, Daniel?"

"I'm doing a piece on wellness practitioners. Specifically the ones operating in gray areas. Your neighbor here—Wren Ashby—came up in my research. I understand you've been spending time with her."

The cold in Marcus's stomach spread. "That's not your business."

"It could be. If you're willing to talk." Daniel smiled. "David tells me you used to be the most rigorous skeptic in the room. The guy who could spot a bad dataset from across the table. I'm curious what changed."

"Nothing changed."

"Then you won't mind answering a few questions. Off the record, if you prefer."

Marcus thought about the word off-record and all the ways it could be bent. He thought about Wren inside her apartment, probably aware that someone was on her stoop, probably already preparing herself for whatever was about to happen.

"Leave," Marcus said.

Daniel's smile did not waver. "I'm not doing anything illegal. I'm standing on a public stoop."

"You're standing in front of my neighbor's door with the intention of writing a hit piece."

"I prefer to call it consumer protection. There are people who claim to have special abilities and charge money for them. Some of them are sincere. Some are predators. I'm trying to figure out which category your friend falls into."

"She's not a predator."

"You'd know, would you?"

The door opened behind Daniel. Wren stood there in a green dress and an unreadable expression. She looked at Marcus first, a quick assessment, and then at Daniel.

"Mr. Reese," she said. "I got your email. I told you I wasn't interested in an interview."

"And I told you I don't need an interview to write a story. I just need to confirm a few facts." Daniel held up his phone. "Your website claims you provide 'intuitive consultations' and 'energetic clearing.' Those are pretty vague terms. Do you think consumers understand what they're paying for?"

"I think most of my clients find me by referral and know exactly what I do."

"And what do you do, exactly?"

Wren's gaze flicked to Marcus. He saw the question in it: how much do I defend? How much do I reveal? He shook his head, almost imperceptibly. Don't perform for him.

"I help people think clearly," Wren said. "Sometimes I use herbs. Sometimes I use cards or thread. Sometimes I just listen."

"For a hundred and fifty dollars an hour."

"For a sliding scale that starts at eighty and caps at one-fifty, yes."

Daniel's eyebrows rose. "You keep records."

"I'm a business, Mr. Reese. I have records."

"I'd love to see them."

"I'm sure you would." Wren's voice was pleasant, but Marcus heard the steel underneath. "You can email my lawyer. Her information is on my website."

Daniel's smile tightened. "That sounds like you have something to hide."

"That sounds like I know how defamation law works."

Marcus stepped forward, positioning himself slightly between Daniel and Wren's door. "You should go now."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll call the police and report you for harassment. You're on private property."

"I'm on a stoop."

"A stoop that serves two private residences. You don't live here. You're loitering." Marcus took out his phone. "Shall I call?"

Daniel looked at him for a long moment. The predatory cheerfulness flickered, replaced by something harder. "You know, the story I'm writing isn't really about her. It's about people like you. Smart people who should know better. People who get taken in because they want to believe."

"Then write it." Marcus kept his voice level. "Write whatever you want. But don't do it on this stoop."

Daniel held up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine. I'll go. But Ms. Ashby—if you change your mind about that interview, my email's in your inbox."

He walked down the steps and onto the sidewalk, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone who believed he would be back. Marcus watched him until he turned the corner.

When he looked at Wren, her face had gone pale.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

"Fine." She stepped back into her apartment. "Come inside."

He followed her in and closed the door. She went straight to the kitchen and stood at the sink, gripping the counter with both hands.

"Wren."

"I'm fine." She said it again, but her voice was tight. "This happens. Not often, but it happens. People decide witchcraft is either a scam or a novelty, and they want to write about it."

"Has it been this aggressive before?"

"No." She exhaled. "Usually they send an email and go away. This one did research. He knows your name. He knows where you used to work."

Marcus felt a fresh surge of cold. "David told him about me."

"Probably."

"I'm going to kill David."

"Don't." Wren turned around. "That would make the story more interesting."

Despite everything, Marcus almost laughed. "What do we do?"

"We do nothing. He has no evidence of anything illegal. My business is licensed. I pay taxes. My clients sign disclaimers. The worst thing he can write is that I'm weird and charge money for it, which is not libelous because it's true."

"He can make you look like a fraud."

"He can try." Wren crossed her arms. "But fraud requires intent to deceive. I don't deceive anyone. I tell my clients exactly what I do and don't do."

"That won't matter if the article goes viral."

"Then it goes viral." She lifted her chin. "I've dealt with worse."

Marcus looked at her—defiant and frightened at the same time, standing in her kitchen with her hands curled into fists—and felt something crack open in his chest. Not protectiveness, exactly. Something older and more dangerous. The certainty that he would stand between her and anyone who tried to hurt her, even if he did not know how.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

"For bringing him here. He found you because of me."

Wren's expression softened. "Marcus. You didn't bring him here. He found me because he was looking for a story and your name was the easiest connection. That's not your fault."

"If I hadn't—"

"If you hadn't what? Lived next door? Asked me questions? Kissed me?" She crossed the kitchen and took his hands. "None of those things are crimes. And none of them give him the right to harass me."

"I know. I just—" Marcus stopped. The feeling in his chest was too large for the words he had. "I don't want you to have to defend yourself."

"I defend myself every day. From clients who want miracles. From skeptics who want a show. From my own doubts, sometimes." She squeezed his hands. "What I don't want is for you to get hurt because of me. Your career, your reputation—"

"I don't care about my reputation."

"You should."