Stephenie Meyer - The Chemist

“Yes,” Mrs. Weeks responded. “But don’t -”

A few cheers interrupted whatever she was going to say. Adam didn’t relax. He couldn’t feel any change directly on the other end of the line.

“You want me to talk to him, Ollie?” the loud voice asked.

“No, go deal with them,” Mrs. Weeks said. “Nathaniel might need a stiff drink. Maybe the waitstaff, too. I’ll take care of this.”

“Wilco.”

“I apologize for the interruption, Mr. Kopecky,” Mrs. Weeks said, her voice clear again. “And truly, thank you so much for the offer. I’m very sorry it won’t work out.”

“I don’t understand.” Adam could hear the deflation in his own tone and was sure she could, too. “We can be flexible, like I said. I’ve… I’ve never had anyone who didn’t want this.”

Now her voice was more animated – soothing, kind. “And we would want this, absolutely, if it was possible. You see…” A short pause. “There’s an issue, a legal issue, that we’re dealing with. A lien situation with my brother-in-law’s former girlfriend. Was it a business loan, was it a personal gift? Yada yada; you get the picture. It’s all very delicate – sticky, you know, and no press is good press for now. We have to keep a low profile. I hope you can understand. We are very flattered.”

He could hear the loud brother arguing with someone in the background, more barking, and some quieter mumbles that sounded like complaints.

This was more like it. A concrete reason, even if he didn’t totally understand how a legal case would be negatively impacted by the restaurant’s involvement with the show… unless they thought they were going to have to pay out some percentage of what the place was worth?

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Weeks. Maybe sometime in the future? I could give you my -”

“Absolutely. Thank you so much. I’ll be in contact if we are ever in a position to accept.”

The line went dead. She hadn’t even let him give her his phone number.

Adam stared at the papers in front of him for a few seconds, trying to shake off what felt very much like being shut down after asking a charity date to the prom.

A few minutes passed while he stared at the phone. Finally, he shook his head and reached for the file with the backups. The coffee shop in Parker would be only too grateful to be chosen. Adam needed a few good screams.

This story wasn’t one I could have written by myself, and I’m immensely grateful to all the people who gave me so much of their time, patience, and expertise.

My MVP was Dr. Kirstin Hendrickson of Arizona State University’s school of Molecular Sciences and her colleague Dr. Scott Lefler. Dr. Hendrickson spent an incredible amount of time working out realistic ways for me to kill, torture, and chemically manipulate fictional people, and I am so appreciative for her help.

My favorite RN, Judd Mendenhall, was also a huge help in keeping Daniel Beach alive by talking me through a sucking chest wound and coming up with the veterinarian solution.

Without Dr. Gregory Prince’s brilliant help with molecular biology and monoclonal antibodies, I would not have been able to give Alex the backstory she deserved.

An enormous thank-you to each of the following awesome people: Tommy Wittman, retired special agent, ATF, who gave me an excellent crash course in gas masks; Paul Morgan and Jerry Hine, who were frighteningly helpful with the mechanics of building a functional death trap; Sergeant Warren Brewer of the Phoenix Police Department, who vetted my drug deals; S. Daniel Colton, former captain, USAF JAG Corps, for his expertise in the creation of Kevin’s backstory; Petty Officer First Class John E. Rowe, who is always happy to talk guns with me or any other random thing I might be curious about.

And a huge thank-you also to my sources who preferred to remain anonymous. Your help is so appreciated.

All my love to the usual suspects: My very understanding family, who are so patient with my sleepless, manic writing spells; my brilliant and kind editor, Asya, who never tells me I’m crazy even when I am; my ninja agent, Jodi, who inspires fear in all who oppose her (and sometimes those who don’t); my super-classy film agent, Kassie, whom I aspire to be when I grow up; my production partner, Meghan, who carries all the weight of Fickle Fish so it doesn’t burn to the ground in my absence. And, of course, my heart is full of love for all the people who pick my books up and give them a chance – thank you for letting me tell you stories.

And finally, thank you to Pocket, my gorgeous and IQ-challenged German shepherd, who, at the very slightest hint of danger, immediately cowers behind my legs. Who will never love me the way he loves my husband. Who still doesn’t understand the basic principles of the game of fetch. I love you, too, you big, dumb, beautiful chicken.

Stephenie Meyer graduated from Brigham Young University with a degree in English literature. She lives with her husband and three sons in Arizona. Read more about Stephenie and her other books at stepheniemeyer.com.