She frowned but waited for Denise to leave before turning to ask, “Is there a problem?”
“He’s not acting the way you described.”
“Come on, let’s have some champagne. Now that Denise is gone, no need to bother with the orange juice.”
We reconvened around an antique café table in the breakfast room, and I outlined my idea about having him awakened at the butt crack of dawn to work for Habitat for Humanity.
“Oh, that’s genius,” she said. “He hates getting up one second earlier than he has to.”
“Honestly, I expected him to cuss the volunteers out and then slam the door in their faces, but he didn’t.”
“Even better. He doesn’t know a flathead screwdriver from a Phillips.”
My unease heightened. Either Trista’s glee was genuine, or she should be nominated for an Academy Award. This woman had been wronged, and she desperately needed to see her husband’s comeuppance. I proceeded with caution. “I thought that, too, at first. But take a look at these pictures I took from my car.”
Trista frowned at pictures of a smiling Malone. You could practically hear him whistling as he worked. Through the picture. “Is he smiling? Are those sweatpants he’s wearing?”
“Yes and yes.”
She leaned back and stared at the ceiling, blinking furiously again. She then looked forward but closed her eyes and took a series of even breaths. “Maybe the problem was me all along?” she said in a small voice.
“No, no,” I said. “Here, just look at the video and tell me what you see. We’ll get him yet. Don’t you worry.”
She sighed deeply but took my phone to study the first video. I looked away, but the memory of a shirtless Malone leaning against the doorjamb remained burned in my brain.
I heard the bang of the door on the video, and then Trista made a choking noise. “That’s not my husband.”
Chapter 14
Relief coursed through my system, sheer relief that I wasn’t attracted to my client’s husband. Only then did curiosity join the party, I’m ashamed to say.
“Then who is he?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Trista sat back in her chair, her mouth an angry slash. “You’re the private investigator. You tell me.”
Oh, this wasn’t good. I could refund her money, but I needed everything I’d made so far to get my student loans back on track. Time to shift into conciliation mode.
“Here’s what I know: He’s living where you said he would be. The first time I saw him, he wore a tailored suit, aviators, and drove a silver Lexus. The mailbox says ‘Malone.’ I even asked him point-blank if he was Blake Malone, and he said yes.”
But he’d flinched.
Just a momentary hesitation when I’d said the full name, and then he had quickly said he preferred Malone.
“So someone who looks like your husband, answers to your husband’s name, and drives your husband’s car lives in an apartment owned by the family business. Why? And who is it?”
When Trista didn’t answer, I looked over. She’d blanched, her eyes now wide.
“Trista?”
“What?”
“Any idea who this guy is?”
“Maybe.” She sucked in a breath but didn’t let it go.
I looked at her expectantly.
“Blake has a cousin. I’ve never met him, but I’ve seen pictures. The two do look eerily similar—especially from a distance.”
