2019-06-24 - Miss Reede meet Mister Clayton

It was a beautiful summer evening and Byron wasn't letting any of that go to waste. He has the French doors wide open, leading out to that expensive ocean view. Having called Isabella to arrive early, so that they can discuss a few things and continue with their playing catch up, the pair were out on the rooftop terrace with a drink in hand as a warm summer breeze sweeps through the town. The dark skies were illuminated by the stars and the glow of the moon.

It was evening, so Byron is dressed more casually, wearing a hunter green colored long-sleeved shirt, a pair of jeans and loafers on his feet.

The apartment mirrors this image that Byron Thorne has created for himself. Every inch of it looking expensive. He gets a call from security downstairs, letting him know that his second guest had arrived. "Clayton's on his way up. Let's hope he doesn't do anything unnecessarily foolish and along the lines with one of the messages he'd sent me earlier." Nevertheless, just like the last time that Alexander was here, Thorne texts: 'The door is unlocked.'

Alexander does not throw a temper tantrum in the lobby, although some poor security guard gets a look he does not deserve until Alexander is cleared to come up. He checks the text when it goes off, but doesn't reply. He just rides the elevator all the way to the elegant penthouse. Which he does not, in any way, look like he belongs in. He's wearing an oversized flannel button up that hangs halfway down to his knees, his worn pants and stompy, muddy workboots. He's also carrying a file folder. He knocks before trying the door and letting himself in, pausing just inside the doorway to say, "Mister Thorne?" As always, the penthouse gets an impolitely wary survey to identify where people are. The terrace is, perhaps, a surprise, because it takes him several long moments before he begins moving in that direction.

It didn't take long for Byron Thorne to set up the meeting he promised - and much like Isabella had promised him a few days ago, her schedule was much more malleable than his. When the call finally comes while she's deeply entrenched in research, she simply saves her work and moves to get out of her pajamas to make herself more presentable.

Bayside Apartments is a stretch of real estate she isn't terribly familiar with, though the shape of it is vaguely familiar; she surmises that Byron had probably purchased something that already existed in Gray Harbor and improved it instead of building from the ground up, completely from scratch. After curiously taking in the building's front facade, her booted steps take her through the lobby and up the elevators, making her way in a quick clip towards her childhood friend's office. Big city living has affected her overall manner, though Byron would really be the only person nearby who would know it - her sense of style stays at the point between fashionable and functional: a light jacket pulled over an Edwardian-styled ruffled blouse, designer jeans over sandals that showed off her French pedicure. She has minimal accessories - classic, timeless shapes with an eye catching detail here or there, but overall as far from ostentatiousness as they come. Her hair is pulled in a low, looping ponytail at her nape, fastened slightly sideways.

Her jacket is off by the time Byron asks her to have a drink out at the terrace, slender arms folded on the railing with a tumbler in her hand filled with an excellent scotch, taking advantage of the terrific weather. "It was all my professor's fault," she says, wiggling her short glass at him. "He told me my first day at Oxford that I wouldn't be able to survive Academia if I didn't learn how to drink like a man. I mean, I still drink wine, but sometimes even that's too sweet for me most days. Then again, I always needed a little kick." Her every subtle movement is accentuated by a swing of a glittering object against the delicate dip of her exposed collarbones above the modest, scooped neckline of her blouse, the moonstone pendant reflecting the summer's distant starlight.

When Alexander Clayton's arrival is announced, Isabella takes another pull from her scotch. "I'll give him the benefit of the doubt," she reassures him, for the time being willing to trust Byron's judgment. Green eyes shot with gold train towards the door once it opens, and a surprisingly formal address is directed to the man of the house, subjecting the private investigator to that quiet, intense scrutiny, irises gleaming like a cat's in the half-dark of the evening. She is impossible to miss, for those with the talent; next to Byron, she burns like the sun.

She says nothing yet, glancing over at Byron and waiting for proper introductions.

"It's a good thing that I keep my bar fully stocked then. Just don't drain it all. You've got nothing to prove to me." Byron says, voice coming out in a chuckle. But then, they've always been competitive, so maybe there is something to prove. As he has no further notifications or emergency calls from downstairs, he'll assume that everything went on without a hitch. This doesn't make his way back into the apartment proper to meet with Clayton at the door. No, he'll have the man trek through one end of the living space of the apartment to the other.

Alexander's arrival is announced by the DING of the elevator. The actual door swinging open is nice and silent. People pay good money for this kind of excellent quality in structure. "The final guest has arrived." It's only then that he takes a few slow steps back into the apartment proper, "You remember Alexander Clayton?" He knows that Isabella does, they'd discussed him yesterday. "And Clayton, you might also remember Isabella Reede." There are many good reasons that he might remember her. It depends on whether he was still in town during her Junior year of high school. To Isabella, he asks, "Do you want your drink topped before we start?" Then to Alexander, "I always expect the same answer from you, but I'll ask anyway: Would you care for something to drink?"

Alexander approaches, expression less blank than usual. Instead, he looks...somewhat irritated, but also a bit twitchy. Checking shadows and staring past the two at the beautiful view of the Bay like something there might bite him. He refocuses with a shake of his head as Byron starts to speak. "Isabella Reede." A pause as he studies her. "Yes. I remember. It's nice to see you again. I wasn't aware you were back in town." He sighs. "But you are. Here. And like you are." He rubs at his temple, slants a look at Byron. "If you have some water, I wouldn't mind. It's gotten warm." And he's wearing long sleeved flannel, for some godawful reason.

You've got nothing to prove to me.

"Web of lies," Isabella tells him with a laugh as she follows him into the penthouse suite's proper - one last spark of levity before they get down to the serious business of meeting the private investigator Byron mentioned very recently.

Her memories of the infamous figure before her are rather vague, knowing of him mostly through his reputation than any actual personal connection or relationship. Introductions between them made, there's a slight nod from the green-eyed brunette. "I do. Thanks for agreeing to this," Isabella says, looking Alexander and falling silent, simply observing him for the time being and taking him in; a man who visibly demonstrates a certain degree of masculine apathy in his manner of dress, though he is in no way too sloppy in the doing, having just come from a sleepless night or several with the circles under his eyes. Built, however, to withstand several hits.

"You're only the third familiar face I've run into," she remarks to the newcomer. "I returned the night the storm hit - the city's as weird as ever. Byron tells me you're investigating my mother's family. May I ask why?"

Regarding the drink, she smiles faintly over at Byron and offers her mostly-finished glass to him. "Yes, please," she tells him, a hint of resignation slipping over her delicate features. "Something tells me I'm probably gonna need it."

"I have a full bar and an espresso machine and here you ask for water." Byron says with an amused grin. "Not that I expect you to want coffee at this hour." He'll at least admit to. Even if he's probably had a few cups in the evening from time to time. Taking the glass from Isabella, he sets it down alongside his on the bar counter as he reaches for a bottle to fill both up. Reede's bringing up that he'd informed her of some of Alexander's research makes Byron take pause, his head turning to the side in an attempt to gauge the other man's reaction to this, but he's back to replacing the cap on the bottle soon enough.

From there, he gets a clean glass, making the short walk to the kitchen sink. Rather than just use the tap water, which has a purifier attached to it, he takes a container from out of the fridge. Chilled. It is a pretty warm night. This he fills the glass with before working to carefully cluster all three glasses, offering the outer two to his guests. "That's partially true." He then says, "We just need to figure out whether your mother's Baxter blood is of the same stock as that which was bred in this town." He then starts on his way back to his office, "Follow me."

There's flat, almost reptilian consideration in return, although Alexander doesn't seem bothered by the study. "I don't mind meeting people," he says, to the thanks. He looks down at his shoes, scraping them a bit on the terrace. "The storm. Yes. I remember that. It was an odd night." A sideways glance then to Byron and his brow knits uncertainly. "I enjoy water. I don't drink much alcohol. I'm sorry." Then his attention snaps back to Isabella, his spine and shoulders strengthening as he studies her with renewed interest. "Because they die," he says, bluntly. "Die or disappear. I want to know why. You're--" his attention flicks back and forth with the conversation, "perhaps a Baxter? Why did you come back?" The water glass is taken when it's offered. "Thank you, Mister Thorne."

She takes her refilled tumbler with a murmur of gratitude, taking another pull from it before turning on her heel to follow Byron to where he deigns to lead them. Through the doors leading into his office, those observant eyes take in the decor; unlike the last time she had run into the dark-haired entrepreneur, however, she doesn't comment on it, or tease him about it. Instead, Isabella's stare gravitate towards Alexander's tall figure again as he moves, her face relatively inscrutable - an expressive creature by nature, in the times when she's decidedly not, she makes for a difficult read, her thoughts guarded within the blast doors of her current demeanor.

She takes a seat, whenever Byron gives them leave to do so, crossing one long leg over by the knee and the short glass of scotch cradled within the deceptively easy grip of slender fingers.

"Do you mean to save or protect them in some way?" she wonders, not electing to answer the question yet, though when told of the reasons why (because they die), her eyes lid faintly in quiet consideration.

"I came back because of work, but even before the project fell on my lap, something was tugging at me to come home. My Dreams have taken the turn for the strange, and the very night I did return, I had a supernatural encounter at the hospital where I took shelter in the storm - I needed to run an errand there anyway, and by the time I arrived, the roads were simply too dangerous to keep driving in, especially after an exhausting, cross-continental flight. Believe me, if I could have avoided returning home altogether, I would have - but the professor who sent me here to do some research is a man I respect."

She tables the Baxter question for now. Instead: "Byron spoke to me about a photograph that seems to mirror something similar to what I experienced recently before I came back. Do you have it?"

Byron's already settled behind his desk in that executive seat, giving that gesture for both Alexander and Isabella to seat themselves in the guest chairs across the way. "If you wanted a lemon to go with that or some fruit infusion, I can accommodate all of that as well. Though I probably should have brought it up before earlier. My bad." He's mostly teasing Alexander for the water, probably thinking that the man wouldn't really care for anything decidedly fancier, even if it were just a slice of lemon.

Yeah, Thorne's mind is as far from the storm as he can possibly keep it, though some of the incidents surrounding that evening make it difficult. He has other things to possibly bring up, but he'll let Isabella's curiosity lead the way. It's why he'd set up this meeting to begin with. When the request is given, his gaze looks towards Alexander, the glint in his eyes and his very expression keeping to a neutral appearance.

Alexander hesitates when he passes over the threshold of the office, sweeping it with his eyes before he makes his way to the seat that Isabella doesn't take. He shifts the chair without fuss, to have both other people and at least a part of the office doorway in his sight. Even for him, this is a bit twitchy. But at least he DOES sit down. "It's fine. Thank you for the offer." He takes a sip of the water, his file folder going to his lap. Isabella is listened to, and frowned at, although it seems to be concern, not disbelief. "A lot of things happened during the storm," he says, quietly. The more pertinent question is considered longer. "I don't know," he says, at last. "Probably. Some of the dead have been children. I can't imagine what children would have done to deserve such reprisal; they can be cruel, but not usually deserving of fatal retribution. And there's often collateral damage, if these deaths are aimed at Baxter. I don't like it."

He opens the file folder, and offers her the photograph. It's a copy of a microfische of an old, old newspaper photograph. "Eighteen eighties," he supplies, without being asked. In it, a man dressed as a preacher stands before eight pyres, waiting for eight women who stand there. It's fairly obvious what's going to happen next, although this is clearly the moment before the fire starts. He watches her face with a keen interest. "What do you see, Miss Reede?"

I don't like it, Alexander says.

That makes two of us.

Though Isabella keeps that thought to herself, feeling Alexander's stare practically bore into the side of her face. But nothing else is commented on, though considering the fact that she hasn't left, or hasn't said anything rude or confrontational towards the private investigator poking into family business, she is keeping her word - that she would give Alexander Clayton the benefit of the doubt. With the old photograph handed to her, she takes it between her fingers and looks at the tableau captured in black and white, frozen in time.

Her eyes immediately fix on the preacher standing in front of the pyres. She feels nothing from the photographs, sees no additional effects - there is no hint of a psychic reaction from the young woman when she gets her hand on what she has asked for, but there is something else in her expression. Something visible and real by the slight widening of her eyes once she realizes just who the person in the photograph is.

What do you see?

"....someone I know," she tells the two gentlemen in the room with her quietly. "Or know of."

She slowly lowers the photograph, looking up at Byron and then Alexander. "I'm willing to share some background information," she says after a momentary pause. "But I have conditions. The incident at the hospital was caused by a force that felt familiar to me, as if it shared some part of me. It - he, I felt a distinct impression that he was male...he killed a man, and nearly killed a woman before he escaped to the Downtown area. If you're right and that something is after the descendants of the Baxter family, and you're serious about investigating the reasons why, I'd like to be part of the investigation, and share information. I can't fight what I don't know, Mr. Clayton."

Determination slips over her face, eyes hardening to marbles. "Secondly, I hope that you'll keep certain aspects of what I'm about to tell you confidential. My mother is in poor health - she has been since my brother's disappearance. Perhaps I'm being overly cautious, but I don't want anything about this rubberbanding back to her."

Of course, Byron is curious when Isabella is presented with the photograph. Though this eagerness to know what this childhood friend of his thinks or even feels about the image shown to her is hardly conveyed in his posture and expression. Rather than be seated at the edge of his seat to stare on her the way Alexander might, he, instead, lounges a little deep within his professional-grade office chair, his frame leaning slightly to the right where his hand is outstretched, fingertips clutching his newly filled drink, yet he does nothing to lift it to his lips. With his chin lowered, it's his eyes that flicker from photograph to Isabella and back again every so often. He remains quiet and thoughtful.

What's he really wants her to witness is something that is beyond her at the moment. Though when she answers Alexander's question in the way that she does, there's this look given to the Investigator, when he murmurs his own question to Isabella know, "So you do know who that is?" If so, that means her Baxter line comes from this town.

It's when she brings up the hospital, that Byron begins to explain some of that, as Alexander might not have known, "The shadowy figure that I saw down in the sewers, the one with the harsh voice, calling out Bill? I believe that he made his way to the hospital soon after, because Bella made mention of someone who was looking for a Billy." That out of the way, he finally lifts the glass to his lips for a drink, before saying, "You know that you have my word."

Alexander does, in fact, slide to the edge of his seat to stare at Isabella as she studies the photograph. While her answer isn't, perhaps, what he might have expected, it's certainly not a disappointing one. "What?" Alexander's spine straightens, his shoulders square, and animation that isn't twitchy nervousness comes to his features. A flicker of a look towards Byron. "Yes, I remember the name from the drain. And whoever that was was calling the slimes." His eyes flick back to Isabella. "Does the man in the photograph resemble the one you saw? Or is that feeling of familiarity that you have?"

He waves an idle hand. "I don't have a monopoly on information, Miss Reede. If you want to help, I'd be delighted." And he even smiles at her, bright and sunny and warm. It takes ten years off his face, and takes ten seconds to disappear back into his usual, more wary expression. "I will...try. Although it becomes difficult when too many sources don't want information shared. I can theorize, develop hypotheses, but with compartmentalized information, I can't share those hypotheses, test them, or use them to develop any sort of response." He slides back into his chair with a sigh. "But I will ask permission, if you like? Would that serve? And who is Bill. Or William, I should assume. This is why I despise nicknames," he mutters at the end. "Imprecise."

She trusts Byron; he might be the only person in Gray Harbor that she trusts implicitly - not an easy feat, given how jealously Isabella guards the life inside of her head. It's through his connection to her childhood friend that she is even speaking to Alexander. His suddenly bright smile, however, does give her pause and while some part of her remains uncertain, she is at least willing to believe in his sincerity in trying to stop whatever it is that's happening. His rebuttal about confidentiality is sound.

"Don't worry," she tells him, a half-smile suddenly tugging up on her mouth, normally so expressive and presently fraught with a certain tension. "I only want the two of you to keep one thing to yourselves."

With that, she rises, crossing over towards Byron's desk. "Ronnie, can I borrow a piece of paper and a pen?" She might know him well, but this is his house and she's not completely devoid of her courtesies. She asks first before she helps herself to his supplies, assuming he allows her. Though if or once he does, she starts drawing a few figures on the page, her neat, swirling scrawl staining the page with black ink.

"His name is Lindon Baxter," she tells him. "I recognize him in some old photographs from my grandfather's house. He was the firstborn son of the original Baxter couple that founded the city. He had a sister named Elizabeth." She looks over her shoulder at Alexander, smirking faintly. "I'm an archaeologist by trade, but digging up the bones of the past necessitates an almost intimate relationship with history. I wouldn't be acting as a credit to my own profession if I didn't know something about where I came from. As for whether he was the shadowy figure I encountered in the hospital, and that Ronnie encountered in the sewers, I'm not sure. All I saw was a shadow that felt distressingly familiar."

She starts to draw a line across the page. "I'm not certain what happened to Elizabeth," she continues. "All I know was that she eventually married someone prior to 1873. Lindon - the preacher - also married, to a woman from the Weber family. I'm not sure which one. They had several children...one of those children eventually conceived or begot Robert Baxter. While there are no records left that could prove or disprove as to whether this is the same Robert Baxter that murdered Mayor Thomas Addington II, his wife and children in 1938, my family believes this was the case, that he was the murderer."

She lifts her gaze at that. "This is the one thing I would like the two of you to keep to yourselves," she says, though her eyes are steady on Byron's face as she says this, given the recent revelation that he is distantly related to the Addingtons. "This is all old history, but the Addingtons have a tremendous influence in Gray Harbor, still. My mother's been through enough, I don't want the community to turn against her."

Byron's not going to tell Isabella 'No' when she asks to use some of his office supplies. In fact, he pushes a notepad in her direction to go with the pen she'd found next to some of his own work, having found it set next to some documents in folders upon his desk. It's even of Mont Blanc. He does shoot her this look, his lips quirked in a near grimace when she addresses him by one of the nicknames she'd given him as children. Not that he'll draw any further attention to this, in the case that Alexander doesn't take notice, but she utters it again soon after!

What Isabella reveals is quite interesting now. If there was anything that anyone wanted to learn about the Baxters, it seems that troublesome Izzy had most, if not, all of the answers. "Learning all of this, it makes me want to dig further into my family's history now." This is said mostly in jest, as he adds, "Though I'm sure the most exciting thing that ever happened to the Thornes of old was that they got a daughter married into the Addington's."

This is something which Isabella also touches upon now. With this explanation she gives on why she'd like some of this info to be kept on the down-low, he fully understands it. He then blinks, his mind playing back what was given them, "Weber. As in the family who owns that bookstore in town?" Of course, it's them. They were known to be a little weird.

"Ronnie?" Alexander's head comes up, and he turns to stare at Byron. He hates nicknames. He does. And yet, as he very obviously tries to fit the sophisticated picture of the modern Byron Thorne with the name 'Ronnie', his lips twitch upwards. But it IS a brief diversion into amusement - murder and mystery will always be a stronger draw for Alexander than teasing someone, so his attention flickers back to listen to Isabella's story. "Archeology? Fascinating." He means it, too, studying her with renewed interest. "History was my major. In college. Cognate on crime." Of course it was.

He nods, absently to Byron. "Sounds right. I remember them. And while Robert isn't an uncommon name, if the dates match up, then it wouldn't be an absurd proposition." He takes a breath, lets it out slowly. "I don't intend to share this with any of the Addingtons at all. I'm still not certain what their role is in this odd little drama, but they could crush us like bugs." A thoughtful glance towards Byron, in all his new money class. "Well. Some of us." A glance back to Isabella. "We have a new question, however. Who is 'Bill', 'Billy', or - preferably - William, and who is this person looking for him? How does he shape the lost places as he seems to? It can't--" this is Gray Harbor, so Alexander irritably revises, "it is UNLIKELY to be an immortal preacher from the 1800s. Unless..." he frowns, looking down at his shoes, which are really too shabby for this carpet.

Byron's visible grimace earns from Isabella a faint twitch from her lips, a bit of her old mischief returning visibly. Though when Alexander reveals a bit of his own history, she turns to regard him, surprise wreathing her heart-shaped face. "I didn't know you were a historian," she tells him. "I majored in the classics in Boston University as an undergraduate, then was accepted to a master's program at Oxford. I'm taking a small break with the research I'm doing before I fully invest myself in my phD candidacy. I specialize in underwater archaeology, and Ancient Greek and Roman artifacts." Finally, a warmer smile curls on her mouth. "It sounds interesting, the history on crime." That, she also means.

She shakes her head. "I'm not sure who Billy is," she replies. "And there's probably a countless number of William's in the census records, though maybe they can be cross referenced with which of them had any significant connections with the Baxters or Addingtons back in the day."

The young woman returns to her piece of paper. She doesn't appear to be finished. "Robert also married. The woman is unknown, and like the original Baxter couple, they had two children, a daughter and a son. The son married a daughter from the Kinney family, and they also had two children. One of them was Suzanne Baxter, who married Mitchell Johnson. I believe that the two of them ran a funeral parlor in Gray Harbor that burned down in 1969."

That is when she turns, to present to the gentlemen with her the piece of paper. "The son was my grandfather," she says. "Phillip Baxter. My mother, Irene, is his daughter." Carefully structured upon the page, including the general dates she knows, is a family tree tracking her side, pulled directly from her prodigious memory. The last two entries on the page are her twin brother's name, and hers.

Leading to the conclusion that Isabella Reede is a direct descendant of Preacher Lindon Baxter, and the murderer, Robert Baxter.

Silently bristling when Alexander confirms that he'd heard the nickname spoken by uttering it himself, Byron does little to draw any more attention to this 'Ronnie' at all. Though now it's Isabella who gets this /look/, as if he's asking telepathically, but not, asking her 'Really? In front of him too?'. Boy, is he quick to relax when nothing more of this is said. The alcohol helps a lot as well.

Byron, himself, barely focused any attention in history class. He did well in school, of course, and he believes he knows enough about the town's history to not need to seek out more knowledge, but he had far different interests than the past. "So we need to find out who this Billy is and why this guy is looking for him." When the other names are mentioned, Kinney isn't all that familiar to him, but the other one is. "Johnson? As in Andi Johnson's family?" He was friends with her as well.. "This really is a small town." He says nothing more of the funeral parlor's destruction, knowing that Alexander will have more to say about it.

"Not a historian," Alexander corrects, but gently. "Not with just an undergrad degree and a lot of distractions." His voice turns dry. "My interest was always primarily in the obscurity of objective truth - how fragile the understanding one can cobble together from primary sources, each reflecting a particular point of view, and rarely an event having enough coverage from enough distinct points of view to have a TRUE understanding of how it actually happens. Historical crime is particularly interesting in that regard, in that it's comparatively well-documented for minor and undramatic events, but recorded depositions and newspaper articles all have distinct points of bias, and if a case's ultimate disposition was never proved beyond a shadow of a doubt, then it is a hanging question mark in the human tapestry, a reality without any /reality/ - except to those who experienced it. And their stories will never be fully told, understood, or remembered." It all comes out of him in a rush; the volume of his voice never rises, but his excitement is clear. He even laughs, a real laugh, when she goes into more detail. "Ah, your area of specialization is far older than mine, of course. I mostly studied primary sources in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. But," he adds in a playful stage whisper, "I /did/ hang around with the Classics students. I'm moderately proficient in Ancient Greek, myself, Miss Reede. And Latin, of course - it's useful for legal documents if nothing else. Likely not as practiced as you, but if you ever wish to discuss manuscripts or documents..."

It's Byron's words that bring Alexander back abruptly to the fact that they're talking about potentially deadly supernatural threats, and not getting their history geek on. The animation tempers in his features, his eyes going a little blank as he mentally rewinds the conversation and refocuses. He glances at Byron. "She would prefer that not get around. For the same reason that Miss Reede would not." Then sort of deflates back into his chair. "I and another person had a vision of the funeral home burning. And who did it. We haven't been able to identify them precisely, but we /were/ able to rule out Suzanne Baxter, although she was accused of and tormented for the crime. Anything further on that line is not something I am at liberty to speak of, at this moment." It's an apology, and one that clearly makes him a little uncomfortable. "But I could say that I have my suspicions on who burned the funeral home, but I haven't confirmed them to my satisfaction."

It doesn't take a mindreader to accurately interpret the look that Byron gives her. What he gets in return is a face so innocent, completely with the widening of her already large eyes, that any court nearby was likely to convict her on the spot. And while she manages not to smile, she does surreptitiously flash him a wink,

Isabella doesn't seem inclined to sit, restless energy emanating from her in waves. After pacing a circle around the chair she has vacated, she takes a drink from her scotch and then half-perches on the corner of Byron's desk, ankles crossing and the flat of her palm bracing behind her. She leans, if not just to deposit the Mont Blanc pen that she borrowed from her childhood friend on the holder where it belongs. Her head cocks to the side, undertaking enough of an angle that it forces a dark chocolate tress to curl on one cheek, quietly listening to Alexander as he elucidates the particulars of his specialty. She, who knows very little about the history of crime, affords him with the same intensity she demonstrates with everything else, of the nature and character of one who throws herself wholeheartedly, body and soul, on a single act - even if it's just listening to the 'town crazy' who is quickly demonstrating that he isn't all that crazy at all.

After all, if he's proven correct, then the only insanes ones left would be the people who refuse to believe him after the fact.

"I think all known history suffers from the fact that the people who document it are human and fallible. I don't think there's any source out there that's completely free from bias," she observes. "But if multiple sources corroborate the same thing, however, then the probability of the event in question to have happened is relatively higher than most." Amusement surfaces on the pliant line of her mouth. "Probably why hearsay's inadmissible in court, save for a few exceptions." She knows little to none about the history of crime, but that doesn't mean she can't contribute to Alexander's explanation, reflecting his interest in this particular brand of intellectual discourse.

His playful confession about having run with the same circles as other classics majors has her lips parting into a visible grin, enough to afford him a glimpse of pearly teeth. "Did you?" she wonders. "I'm sorry. Hopefully they didn't try to convert you to a vegan lifestyle or tried to drunkenly summon an ancient Sumerian fertility god while you were spending time with them." The brunette is clearly an accomplished academic, it often shows in her speech and how she gives her opinion, but as Byron knows very well, she has absolutely no qualms playing the part of the devil, and is not above self-mockery. She knows what they're like, she was one of them! "But yes, Greek and Latin. My master's thesis had me bouncing around between Britain and Greece for a few years, I had to learn the language. I could keep going, but I don't want to give Byron..." See, she's showing some mercy. "...more excuses to make fun of me for being a professional nerd. I mean, he'll do that anyway, but I try not to give him too much ammunition."

That brief side-trip to lighter topics - unable to help herself, always up for banter as she is - is one she abandons when Alexander speaks about the funeral home fire. "It's an intricate puzzle," she concludes in the end. "I'd say that maybe looking into the Addington massacre might've been what started this all, but with my great-great-great grandfather presiding over the burning of witches in Gray Harbor, maybe the roots of the problem go earlier. The only other large event I can recall in which both families were involved was the relinquishment of the Baxters' status as founders of the town to the Addingtons. I'm not the expert Byron is when it comes to transactions, but it wouldn't be the first time a deal went south. In the end, I think the key of the mystery lies in the relationship of the two families...I suspect every other tragedy that followed is either a direct or indirect consequence of what actually happened between the two bloodlines in the beginning."

Byron doesn't even pretend to show interest in this historical banter. It's not even historical murders. Some of it is actual history. It is Alexander's mentioning of those whose stories may never truly be told that makes Thorne speak up, "But the ability to do just that is there. To basically experience what the deceased had gone through. Whether it be by locations, random objects that played witness to it all. Or even the body itself. or what remains of it, I will assume." Still, it's not an experience that he really wanted to relive and 'remember', but he lays it out there. "It's a crime that neither of us are actual police detectives." This is spoken to Alexander, Byron's dark gaze now flickering in the other man's direction.

When Clayton brings up this vision that he'd shared with Byron regarding the burned down funeral home and being warned that not only Isabella, but Andi as well would like to keep this information under lock and key, all that he does is offer a slow nod, mid-sip from his glass. There's a curious look in his eyes, however, as if he has this pressing question on his mind now, that focus still lingering on Alexander. But no, he will refrain from inquiring just yet. He does say, to hint on his thoughts, "I suppose you weren't given permission to share what you had learned of the third family represented in that photograph. He just figures that one of these names mentioned must be the answer to his own question.

Looking between the pair now, he asks, "So where do we go from here?" At first, despite doing a little research on his own, Byron wasn't really part of Alexander's investigations, but he seems to have been dragged into it all. Such madness. "We've learned a lot about the Baxters, I can only assume that Mister Clayton has an entire history full of Addington information."

Alexander says, with perfect seriousness, "No on the vegan lifestyle, but we worked our way through a good portion of the Lesser Key of Solomon and the Heptameron, with occasional divergences to the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum and other texts. The Ars Goetia is rather fascinating, but I fear that my fellow Brethren lacked dedication and far too many of the ceremonies were just an excuse to get drunk, high, and nude." Her other remarks on history bring a quick, warm smile to him. "We should perhaps speak further of this, Miss Reede. When you have time."

When Byron speaks, he turns to regard the man, thoughtfully. "Even that has its biases, Mister Thorne." It's grave. "At least, for me. It's emotion, the retelling of a scene from a fixed point of view - but rarely with context that can make the rawness of it," he shivers a little, the animation draining out of his face as he draws into himself, "more palatable, in some cases. Also, as a side note, reliving a murder that feels like your own multiple times is not, in any way, a fun time." The remark about detectives gets a slight upward tick of his lips. "I don't think I'd thrive in a copshop."

The rest draws his attention away. "I don't actually have much history on the Addingtons - just what's publicly available, and a few scraps here and there. What's public projects a certain image, but it doesn't speak truth." He looks around Byron's office with its exquisite and tasteful decoration. "It's an illusion, designed to solicit a very specific response." He shrugs and refocuses. "Prying deeper might draw attention, so I've tried to be careful. And the third family was the Whitehouses. Although I'll ask you not to spread that around, either. Miss Whitehouse doesn't deserve more harassment. And," he tilts his head back to study the ceiling, "my preference would be to focus on this Will--Bill or Billy. Right now, we have a lot of dead ends, because the ends are literally dead. Whoever this person is looking for, they might be able to shed more light on the situation. And," he frowns, "if they're in danger, I feel we should at least try to help them."

Alexander's invitation has her lifting her brows, before flashing him an incorrigible grin. "Why Mr. Clayton," she says, all sweet, angelic innocence that nobody in this room can trust. "Are you suggesting dinner?"

Clearly a jest, but one made in good humor. More seriously: "Sure," she tells him. "My schedule's pretty malleable, contract work is great that way - you set your own hours."

Byron's question, however, is sound when he wonders where the next step of the investigation should fall, but ever quick when it comes to making a decision, Isabella replies: "I say we try to go back to the beginning and work our way out from there."

She turns her head to regard Byron seated behind his large and expensive desk. "What did you do when you bought this building?" she wonders. "You would know better than me, but let me know if I'm wrong - you contacted the seller, negotiated the price to the way you wanted it, then before you signed anything, you had the property inspected and you had the title of the property investigated to make sure that there were no surprises documented on the deed - like liens, releases, mortgages, things like that and it's only when you were sure that nobody could just come in and sue you for a property right that could have been established well before you were born that you went ahead with it. Once you learned the title was clear, you proceeded to close on the transaction and once the title to the building was passed successfully to you, you had the papers documenting the transfer delivered to the county's register to have the sale recorded. Right?"

She lifts her fingers, absently rolling her thumb against a knot of tension that is forming at the back of her neck. "If the relationship between the Baxters and the Addingtons started with a land transaction, it would be recorded somewhere - not even in Gray Harbor, but the seat of the county - at the county's register of deeds. It's the law. It's been the law and practice since the first colonies were established in the United States. So let's see if there actually was a transaction and how the deal went down."

Isabella nods her head when Alexander asks to keep the third family involved in the strictest confidence. "I know, it's the only untouched solid lead we have," she replies. "But without a last name, it's virtually impossible - Billy could be anybody, and I don't know how practical of an exercise it would be to check on every William that was born in Gray Harbor since the time of its founding. We need to find another qualifier, some other clue that would focus the scope on a specific direction."

"No, reliving a murder is the worst experience anyone can have. One of the worst anyway." Byron could possibly think of one or two more than non-sociopaths might agree with. "The insight is there though. Then again, not that I've ever used my abilities to do anything of the sort." These powers have other uses. That glass of hovering near his lips, he tilts his head back to finish off the drink before finally straightening up somewhat and leaning forward to set the glass down.

With this little teasing that Isabella gives Alexander regarding dinner, Byron's brows lift, dark eyes settled on Clayton once again, "I'd be careful with this one. Dinner date or not. She's incredibly sharp. A little too sharp, I think sometimes." Sharp, indeed, when it's Bella who rattles off the process of what he probably did before finalizing his contract for this apartment complex. Here, he leans back, relaxed again; his arms crossed over his chest. "More or less that." Did he skimp anywhere in between? Who knows! Though his eyes are drawn back to Alexander, curiously, "I thought you were investigating something along those lines. Or are you being extra cautious to not gain Addington attention? I mean, I could always try and do some digging of my own, but I can't say I'd do a better job than either of you."

"Huh." Is the sound that escapes his lips at the mention of Whitehouse. "Figured. But yes. We check the registries for this William. Though I gotta be honest, with William being as popular a name that it is in the classic sense, we're gonna have our work cut out for us."

Alexander's brow furrows, and he studies Isabella with something between apology and suspicion. "It doesn't have to be dinner. But if you would like food and the evening works best with your schedule, then certainly." It's wary, but polite, as if he doesn't quite know why there's amusement involved, but he suspects it's at his expense. He seems to withdraw a little, shoulders dropping and his body shifting into a more defensive, closed sort of posture. Byron's words only seem to add to his unease and confusion, and he rubs his hands nervously on his jeans, and fiddles with his file folder, no longer looking at anyone.

And as he withdraws, his previous downright chattiness also retreats, and he listens silently to the other two, eyes flicking back and forth between them. Eventually, he DOES speak again, but it's softer, more cautious. "Early records search is a good idea. I can't access county records - no car. We do have something else. The hospital and Elm Street. Assumptions: 'Billy' is currently alive, and the target felt he had reason to manifest at the hospital and Elm Street in his search."

A little too sharp, I think sometimes.

"You say the sweetest things," Isabella tells Byron simply, her tone light and waggling her eyebrows at him. "Maybe you should take me to dinner." She's an equal opportunity crap-slinger. No one is safe. Though at Alexander's defensive posture, her smile takes on a more apologetic bent. "I'm teasing you, Mr. Clayton. I didn't mean anything by it - consider it a friendly warning, though, especially if we're going to be collaborating. I do this a lot, I can't help myself."

The hospital and Elm Street. The very moment the hospital is mentioned, the young academic's smiles fade completely.

"Maybe we should divide and conquer," she remarks, in the end. "I have a vehicle here, I can drive to the register of deeds and pull that thread. The two of you are welcome to come with me, we can make a day out of it." Alexander seems a capable researcher in his own right, he wouldn't have collected this much information if he didn't know how, and she didn't know anyone who was as capable of tracking the flow of power and money as Byron is.

"It's a good thing that we live in Gray Harbor. Who knows what crazy expensive restaurant you might pick out otherwise." Byron says as he looks down at his desk, reaching for that same pen which Isabella had used earlier. He then flashes her a smile, "Not many places that serve overpriced small portioned fancy cuisine in this town." Taking out his own personal calendar, he begins to write a few things in the Note section, though he'll give Alexander another look, rather enjoying the odd confusion there.

"I.." He starts, the pen still wags around as he writes, "have a vehicle as well. So I don't mind going either, but if you really want to make a day of it." He even smiles a touch here. "Planning on doing lunch out too, I suppose? Anyway, I'll have to check my schedule and see where I'll be able to fit such an excursion. But I'm making a note to leave a day open."

Alexander stares flatly at Isabella. "I suspect you could. If you wanted to, Miss Reede."

He stands as the talk moves on to travel plans. "I don't mind. My schedule is flexible. Very flexible. Mister Thorne has my number." He glances towards Byron, catches the look, and his head drops a little lower. "I should go. This has been educational. Thank you for the invitation, Mister Thorne." It's all rather toneless, the life leeched out of his words and his expression returning to his usual impassive state. But there's the slightest flicker of warmth as he inclines his head to Isabella. "Miss Reede, it was a pleasure to talk with you." Then he just turns and walks out.

"Hot dogs and funnel cakes," Isabella tells Byron, her smile blossoming fully at his returned fire, reminding him of the food stalls they tended to gravitate to first whenever Gray Harbor held some kind of carnival in the summers of their early youth. "Just because I ended up in Oxford doesn't mean I'm averse to cheap eats, even if you think I'm some kind of filthy blasphemer for liking ketchup on mine. Seriously, it's amazing that we're still friends."

Hunting for answers outside the city lines followed by lunch. She laughs. "Sounds like a plan," she tells Byron agreeably. "I can go anytime, so really, it's on you both to let me know what your schedules are."

With Alexander still somewhat grumbly over her earlier behavior, she seems utterly unfazed. He rightly calls her on her bullshit, but all he gets in return is that irrepressible Trickster's smile, tempered only slightly by contrition. "You're quite sharp yourself, Mr. Clayton," is all she says. "Have a good night, and be careful out there."

She falls quiet as she watches the investigator leave. "I can't help but wonder what happened in his life that he's devoted himself to this," she says, turning her slender form sideways to regard Byron sitting behind his desk. "I mean, you heard him earlier, didn't you? With his reputation, who'd have thought he could sound so erudite talking about the history of crime, or even smile or laugh that way? Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but I think we just witnessed what he was like before....all of this."

"Hey, ketchup on funnel cake is disgusting." Byron comes out with that quick retort, knowing full well what she means. "And I'm not averse to ketchup, but I like me some good mustard or steak sauce." Looking thoughtful and with the boardwalk not far from here, he does mention, "It's always a quick trip out to the boardwalk if you're ever in the mood for soft pretzels and saltwater taffy. Though Julia's fish shop is always great eats. I go to the boardwalk just for her popcorn shrimp."

Sure, he rises when Alexander announces his departure, allowing him this time to stretch out his legs and back. There's a hint of confusion on his features when Isabella speaks of Clayton as if she witnessed a transformation in him. "That... is why people think he's a freak. He enjoys his crime scenes. My father used to gripe about That Damn Kid and some of the time, he'd be talking about Alexander Clayton. I'd known Mister Clayton long before I'd met him, because he was a thorn in the police department's side and my dad was having none of it. So as far as /I/ know, there was no before all of this." He reaches across his table to take up his empty glass as he ponders either refilling it or setting it down into the sink. "He was always like that."

Ketchup on funnel cake is disgusting.

Isabella can't help it; her laughter spills from her, sounding free in spite of the murder, darkness and death they were all discussing just a few moments before, that mercilessly brilliant smile directed at Byron's way. It has the soothing effect of unwinding the bands of tension strapped around her chest at the memory of the hospital where the zombie had tried to crack her skull open, still barely comprehending the idea of the dead coming back to life, like in those ridiculously trendy television shows she doesn't have the time to invest in watching. If Gray Harbor can raise zombies, just what else was it capable of? What does that bode for her own treasure hunt - she's still technically working, after all!

"I do like soft pretzels," she remarks, surprise and affection visible there at the fact that he remembers; she isn't much for sweets, the desserts she prefers were often mild in the sugar, opting for fresh fruits or custards, or soft puffy pastry sweetened by confectioner's powder, like funnel cakes or beignets.

Her green eyes follow Byron as he stands, before she drains her glass, pushing away from his desk. She wanders close to the windows overlooking the ocean just behind his chair, peering out and catching a glimpse of the summer's moon - it is an extraordinarily clear night. With the population so small and mom-and-pop shops closing early, there's little light pollution to get in the way of the spectacular trail of stars dusting the evening sky, scattered across its dark plateau like countless diamonds.

"I was wondering why there was a bit of push and pull between the two of you," she remarks, turning to look over at him. "I thought you only knew of him because he's so infamous, I didn't know there was an actual history. If I believed in the way Fate or Destiny worked in epics like the Illiad or the Odyssey, I'd go on a crazy rant about how this all might be foreordained, that the two of you were meant to work together on this. But I don't believe in a destiny I can't create for myself, and I don't think you do, either. Otherwise you wouldn't be where you are...successful and expensive."

Meeting his eyes, she grins, the expression fetching enough to chase an errant dimple out of her left cheek. "You're still a headache, though. But in the best of ways."

Hearing her soft laughter brings out this smile on Byron's lips as he crosses the room, still in light contemplation. His decision is then made and he sets the empty glass into the sink for now. "Would you like a refill?" Though it's clear that he's done drinking for the moment, himself. With one hand in his pocket, his attention turns to stare out those still open French doors leading out to evening view of the bay.

"He had the audacity to tell me that working with me had a similar vibe to when he would 'work' with my father. But in that case, from how my dad told the story, Clayton was a hindrance at any crime scene." His gaze still lingering off into the distance, though all he sees is the dark night sky, there's a lift to his shoulders. "It doesn't really too much either way. As much as I appreciate the research he's done..." Here he turns to face Isabella, "Though, in truth, this was all /his/ research. I'm only being roped into it. I, personally, never asked for any of this. Anyway, I honestly don't know why I am helping him or giving him my attention. Now with the information that you've brought," he wears this wry look on his face, his head shaking, "Looks like I don't have much of a choice. I mean, I know I contacted him because he did the research that might help with your own..." Issues? Crisis? "Situation. But my association with Clayton was just some amusing side project that lost it's luster when he asks whether I'd be interested in him sending me autopsy photos through the phone."

With that rant done, he looks down at his watch. "Vivian," He starts, "My girlfriend should be returning home soon. If you stick around long enough, you might get a chance to meet her. She's newly arrived in town too. Met her at USC."

The offer for a refill has Isabella shaking her head, tilting her glass to her lips and letting the last few drops of amber gold find her tongue. "If I drink too much of this, I won't be able to work tonight," she tells him, depositing the (expensive) crystal tumbler in his hand. "I mean, I'm capable of many things, but I'm pretty sure my hand-eye coordination goes directly to the crapper after the third glass. I won't be able to type worth a damn."

Her expression softens at the distant face he wears, dark eyes turned inward. That is familiar too - it's the sort of state that she's never certain how to approach, though despite it, she never hesitates. But she can make some logical assumptions; of course Byron wouldn't want to be compared to his father, no matter how complimentary. "My guess as to why you're helping him? I think some part of you wants to know too, B, peek behind the curtain on all the weirdness in your life, and you were always the protective sort. I don't think that aspect of you is limited to your circle of friends. It's not a bad thing, to be concerned about what's going on here. I've given up on this place a long time ago, but you...you want to see it flourish. I think that's decent. I think that's kind, and you're not above extending that sense of kindness towards someone who's more of a headache than an asset to you."

Her brows furrow about him not having a choice but to get involved with the information she brought. "Honestly, if you bowed out now, I wouldn't hold it against you," she tells him. "It's not like I wanted this either, but if Mr. Clayton's right and there's something out for Baxter blood, there's no way I'm going to just sit here and wait for it to slaughter me, or my mother. If I'm going to die, I'm going to do it standing and whatever it is, it's in for a fight." Her face grows a touch more serious. "I am concerned about collateral damage, though. I don't want anything to happen to you."

Mention of the autopsy photos earns him a grimace. "Yeah, that's understandable too. Not exactly socially adept behavior, not exactly surprising, but it's definitely unsavory. At least you had the decency to say no."

With his girlfriend returning home in a few minutes, she smiles. "I'd love to meet her," she tells him simply. "But I should get out of your hair - you've had a long day, and if she's coming home this late, she's probably had one too, and the two of you should have some time together without having an interloper ruining the mood. Though this does explain why you haven't decided to get back to some unfinished business with Lilith. Is she a Victoria's Secret Angel?" Her smile widens. "If she is, wow. Maybe I actually am psychic."

"Work? Tonight?" Byron just has to ask with a subtle lift of his brow when he turns back towards the sink to place the empty tumbler within. There's another look at his watch again, "I'd say something like: 'And people think I'm a workaholic'. But, I work at all hours of the day. I have a few international investors and clients alike. Not everything on Gray Harbor time." Is said with a humored murmur.

Standing there by the sink, both hands on the edge of the counter, his shoulders tense, just as his head shakes slowly. "It wasn't meant in a complimentary way. No. He brought it up because, despite our working for him, he can tell that neither myself nor my father liked him. Quite the opposite in fact." His head turns to look over one of his shoulder in Isabella's direction, "I told him that he'd need to find the reasons out for himself. It could be a wild goose chase all he knows." Despite the rigidness of his posture initially, he pushes off and away from the counter with light ease and there's this winning smile on his lips, "It's entertaining to watch him rack his brain and wonder what he may have done wrong." This is almost something that mimicked Byron's childhood, living with his father's anger.

"That's why I'm willing to help out more than I'd originally thought I would. If there is something out there, hunting down members of your family. Or hurting them, something's gotta be done about it. This is spoken like the Byron from their youth. Champion over... well, his friends mostly. It's like he thought of himself as a white knight back in the day. Yet, despite all of that, things were so much different and so much more complicated now. "The main reason why I am helping Clayton with his research? Maybe we'll find Mrs. Gilford and Sid again."

He wears this bright, almost shit-eating smile when she brings up the Victoria's Secret Angel bit again. "Is it a coincidence that Vivian suddenly packed up and moved from L.A. where she was born and live her entire life to move out here? I mean," There's a bit of chuckle during this pause, "We were in a long distance relationship. On-again, off-again and I had no idea she was coming over until one day she surprised me... after lying and calling me saying that she's considering taking a job in New York. Only to learn during that call that she was downstairs. So yeah, that really threw me. Lilith returning really threw me too. But like I said, the last time I'd seen Lilith, we were 14. So much time had passed and we grew up."

It's almost as if he felt that this entire explanation was needed for whatever reason. "Want me to escort you to your car?" Always the gentleman. "Or are you good for now? Clayton complains about how much of a hassle coming up here is. With the gatekeeper, the doorman."

"Yeah, tonight. I don't have much of a life outside of my work," Isabella tells him with a laugh, quick to give everyone a lot of shit - even herself. "I mean, I'm not complaining - I get to see things not many people get to see, go to places not many people get to go, and recover things that history forgot. It's like my childhood had some direct correlation over where my life ended up. Living a transient existence does get lonely, occasionally, whenever I stop to think about it...but usually I have so many things occupying my time that I don't really notice or bemoan it. I love what I do, Ronnie....much like you do."

He tells her that it's entertaining to bear witness to Alexander's confusion now and then, to which she shakes her head. "Sadist," she ribs him, done in jest though she understands that, too. For all of his stylish, tasteful trappings, Byron Thorne was not perfect - and if he was, they wouldn't get along so well.

There he is, and for a moment, the clock winds back and he's seventeen again, describing the ways in which he would once again triumph over her in yet another competition while offering to do something about the bullies who harassed her in the same breath; the white knight, his armor tarnished by his father's drunken mercies and his mother's blind eye towards his plight. And as he expresses hope that they would find Tobin's mother and her twin brother again...

...it's as if he cracked her one across the face - a split-second of naked, open vulnerability moving over it, those eyes reminiscent of sunlit glades bearing hints of the real damage done to her shattered heart. It doesn't last long, it is as brief as a normal breath - but in that short window of time, it is very real, and as sharp and jagged as broken glass, fading away when she shakes her head once, electing to move on, because these are words that she doesn't have the ability to say.

Instead, she focuses on his grin and the sudden summary he gives her of his romantic history - an on-again, off-again girlfriend, and the stunning reintroduction of his childhood love interest. It almost reads like a novel, including the part where he implies that he's moved on despite feeling like he has to explain it to her to get the whole picture. To his friend, occasional rival and almost-prom date. It's a world she has very little experience in, she who tends to shy away from softer emotions because it means being vulnerable in a different way, and she laughs, opting to forget the twist in her stomach in favor of embracing the moment's unexpected ridiculousness.

In a way, she can't help but be envious of him; he makes being normal look completely effortless.

Reaching over, she takes her jacket and shrugs it on her shoulders, winking at him along the slender curve. "There's no coincidence if she decided to follow you here. Premeditation is the direct opposite of an accident," she tells him, good humor suffusing her words. "And I think I can find my way. Thanks for the drink, though, and the catch up. Let me know when you're ready to go on that research errand at the registry."

Was Byron a sadist? Sometimes... Despite that good natured, ever helpful kid that he was. The one who never judged anyone. There was another side to Byron Thorne as well. Something molded by his father's anger. And very much like his troubles at home, he's learned to keep his own darkness under wraps for so long.

Perhaps he'd seen this look in her eyes that may have hinted that her mind was elsewhere now, even as he spoke. His attentive eyes watch her, as he makes one gesture or other in the middle of conversation. She seemed.. troubled. Her mind was elsewhere.

It's difficult for him to focus when he's in mid-conversation, so there is a moment of pause -- a long pause, where he's just staring at her in his silent attempts to reach out and search for a tendril of emotion or thought to tug on, just to give him an idea of what's on her mind at this moment.

Unfortunately, for him, that light within her is strong, making his mental probing all the more difficult. He soon blinks out of his 'trance', that smile returning to his lips. "I can see it already, this is going to be one terribly odd road trip." With that said, he'll at least open the door for her, "You have a good night then. Drive safe."