Permission

The meeting was already over when Elena Voss walked in. Twelve chairs around the glass table in the London office were empty except for one. Her boss, Margot, didn't look up from her laptop. "You're late." "The Tube was -" "I don't care." Margot finally looked at her. "Jonah Kaye said yes." Elena froze with her coat still half on. "Yes to what?" "To an editor. To you, if you don't mess it up." The name meant nothing to most people. To publishing, it meant everything. Jonah Kaye was 34, a photographer who had sold prints for six figures before he turned 25. Then, three years ago, a scandal. A best friend, a gallery opening, accusations of stolen work. He disappeared. No i********:, no shows, no interviews. He moved to a glass house on the edge of Iceland and became a ghost story. Twelve editors had flown out to get his memoir. All twelve had come back empty. "He rejected everyone," Elena said. "He didn't reject you yet." Margot slid a black folder across the table. "Seven days. You fly tonight. You stay in his house. You get the memoir, or at least a signed contract that he will write it. If you get it, you get Senior Editor. If not..." Elena knew what it means. She was 29, divorced eight months, living in a one-bedroom that still had her ex-husband's books because she didn't have the energy to box them. Senior Editor was the only thing she had been working toward for three years. She opened the folder. Inside was a single sheet, a photo, and a flight itinerary. The photo was of a house - all glass, surrounded by snow, so isolated it looked like it was on the moon. On the back, someone had written in sharp handwriting: RULES: 1. No personal questions unless I give permission. 2. No photos of me unless I give permission. 3. I don't touch you unless you say I can. Elena felt her face get hot. "Is this a joke?" "It's how he lives. He is... particular about consent. After what happened to him, he documents everything." Margot stood. "Your flight is at 9:40. Pack for cold. And Elena - don't fall for him. The last girl who went out there cried for two days in my office." "What did he do?" "Nothing. That's the problem. He did absolutely nothing unless she asked. And apparently, that was worse." The plane landed in Keflavik at 2 a.m. London time. Outside, it was black and white. Black sky, white snow. The wind hit her like a wall. A black Jeep was waiting, engine running. No driver outside, just a note on the dashboard: E.V. - Drive straight. Don't stop. J.K. She had to drive herself. For two hours she drove on an empty road with nothing but snow and occasional northern lights in the distance. Her phone had no signal. The GPS stopped working after the first hour. She just kept driving straight as the note said. Then she saw it. The glass house. It wasn't big, but it glowed from inside, like a lantern in all that nothing. Every wall was a window. She could see a fireplace, a darkroom with red light, and a man standing with his back to the window. He didn't turn when her car lights hit the house. She grabbed her bag, her folder, her coat, and walked through snow that came up to her ankles. Her boots were not made for this. Nothing about her was made for this. She knocked. The door was already open. "Jonah Kaye?" He turned. He was not what she expected from a famous recluse. He was taller than his photos, hair longer, and beard unshaved. He wore a black sweater that had paint on the sleeves. His eyes were tired. "You're late," he said. It was exactly what Margot had said. "The flight -" "You are the thirteenth editor they have sent." He looked at her bag. "You can put your things in the guest room. First door on the left. We start tomorrow. You can ask me anything about photography. You don't ask about my past." "I read your rules." "Good. Then you know the third one." He said it calmly, but his eyes dropped for half a second to her mouth, then back up. He hadn't moved closer, but the space between them felt smaller. "I don't touch you unless you say I can," Elena repeated. "Yes. Do you have a problem with that?" "No. I have a problem with you photographing me without permission." He almost smiled. "I haven't photographed you yet." "How do I know?" "Because if I had, you would know." He walked past her to close the front door she had left open, and for a second he was close enough that she could smell snow and darkroom chemicals and coffee on him. He didn't touch her. Not even a brush of the arm. He kept his own rule perfectly. Margot was right. That was worse. He pointed to the guest room. "Sleep. Tomorrow at 6 a.m. we start. And Elena -" "Yes?" "If you want to leave before seven days, the Jeep has keys. You have permission to leave whenever you want." It was the first time he had used that word with her. Permission. And she felt it in her stomach like a drop. --- End of Chapter 1