You know you’re having a bad day when going to the tag office is an improvement over where you were before. As I stood in line, a riot of feelings swirled within, and I didn’t care for that one bit. Sure, there was the schadenfreude of imagining what Ken would do when he discovered I had messed everything up in his office. There was the joy and pride of getting the car title without having to apologize or pay him any money. Relief that I wouldn’t have to deal with him ever again.
But knowing Trista had initially lied to me cut me deep, and the scar from Ken’s betrayal was still fresh. Mortification that he’d seen me having sex with Malone joined the party. Fear that I would have to deal with him again. Anxiety that I could’ve jeopardized my private investigator license over the flamingo stunt.
Feelings were, in my opinion, highly overrated.
0/10. Did not recommend.
Gradually, that swirl of emotion morphed into resignation, frustration, boredom, and irritation. I’d forgotten to bring a book with me, something I usually did when I knew there would be a line. I would’ve played on my phone, but the battery was almost dead thanks to my surveillance marathon earlier in the day. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten lunch, either.
Happy early birthday to me.
But when it was all over, relief became the predominant emotion because the car was in my name and the registration paid. Even better? My checking account still had plenty left for loan payments and rent and whatnot. I turned in the direction of Trista’s house.
Oh, she’d played her part well. She’d pretended not to know who I was or what I was about, had gone along with my Anonymous McGee—at least, until I went to her house for the flocking, at which point it seemed safe enough to get to know each other.
Or so I had thought.
I didn’t want to believe Ken, but I remembered that she’d said she wanted to hire me to serve papers because she didn’t trust the other guy to do it.
Well, I guessed not since the other guy was Ken, and he had yet to figure out that there were two Malones.
Ken had pointed her to my Malone, and he would’ve served divorce papers to the wrong person, something Trista must’ve realized when she saw Malone’s tattoo in my doorbell cam footage. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. By the time I made it to Trista’s house, my rage monster was threatening to come out again, but at the sight of Trista’s three daughters entering the house with knapsacks and artwork, I put my rage monster on a leash.
I got out of my car and called “Hey” to stop Trista before she reached her front door.
At the sight of me, she froze.
“I’d like to have a word with you,” I said.
She nodded. “Ken texted me, so I thought you might. Let me get the kids settled, and we can talk on the back deck.”
She led the way into the house, and we followed the sounds of giggling, indignation, and teasing, both good-natured and otherwise. The girls were in the kitchen getting snacks and talking about their day at art camp. If they were curious about me, they didn’t let on. Trista pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen, and I made my exit to a screened-in porch.
Waiting gave me time to calm down, but it was still a slow process.
Finally, she joined me outside, looking more tired than she ever had.
She certainly wasn’t offering mimosas today.
“So,” she said.
I attempted a stare but could only come up with a squint. The roof over the screened porch didn’t do much in the way of shielding us because it faced west. The sun came at us sideways, giving us the full brunt of a summer afternoon in Georgia. A trickle of sweat slid down my back. Times like this, I was sure hell was humid.
But I would desiccate from dehydration and drift into the wind before I said another word. My glare was doing the talking.
She sighed and took a seat. I did the same.
“About a year ago I first suspected something was up with Blake. I’d gone to school with Ken, a year or two behind him, so I hired him to see if my husband had a mistress.”
So odd to think that I had probably handled that invoice and never thought a thing of it. That had been a lifetime ago, before I met my Malone. It also made sense of why Trista hadn’t wanted me to find the mistress. She already had someone looking for her.
“He told me Blake was living in that apartment. I didn’t question it because I knew Malone Construction leased one. Blake and I had, ah, taken advantage of it when we were first dating.”
“So the thought that he might be entertaining someone else there stung all the more?”
“Of course it did!”
“Tell me this, Trista. I never thought you were working against me. I thought we were kindred spirits. Was any part of that real?”
