The rest of that afternoon, I spend digging into his background. Civil litigation history, political donations, bankruptcy records (fat chance)—it all comes up blank. Public records tell me that Amelia is his second wife, his first having died a year before he remarried, which is sad but hardly unusual. Out ofmorbid curiosity disguised as thoroughness, I make a Freedom of Information Act request for her medical examiner’s report, which will take a few days. Beyond that, there’s no information.
It’s not that he’s a ghost, it’s that he’s done nothing wrong. Not as far as I can determine.
And that’s when it hits me.
He won’t take a call; I know he won’t. I don’t even want to try, in case I alert him that I’m investigating.
I can’t simply waltz into Northbridge and ask for access. Or subpoena him on the grounds that he looks like a jerk in his LinkedIn profile—not least because he doesn’t have one.
But I know where he might be Friday night. Even if he’s not there, others will be who know him. Hell,Ameliamight even be there.
It’s like the universe wants me to go to this goddamn social event.
Alex will gloat. I know he will. He’ll say I’m only there because it stops him taking the seed money. He offered topayme to go, I told him to get stuffed, and now I’m thinking of going. What does that make me?
Lucy’s paying me to go too—even if she doesn’t know it. Is that any different?
Never in my life have I equated ‘private investigator’ with ‘salacious woman for rent.’ Yet Alex manages to form that connection for me, without even trying.
Am I really thinking about walking back into Alex’s life, two and a half weeks after I walked out of it?
If I go, I get the chance to finish Lucy’s case in record time. She’s offered a fixed fee in addition to hours spent, so I’ll get a decent payday, and potentially save her some money too. I’ll get the answers to the questions, and maybe it’ll get Amelia help she desperately needs. The specter of Alex hovering over my shoulder every time I look at my bank account will fade away, and though I’ll still pay it back, I’ll be able to do it when I’m ready. Buying time to build the business.
If I don’t go, I miss my chance to get into Northbridge. Lucy’s case becomes that much harder to complete—if at all. I could throw hours into it and get nowhere—or worse,notbe able to throw hours into it because I have no leads, and nothing to explore. The very reason every other PI turned it down. And Alex will come knocking for his twenty grand, not least because he told me to be there and I wasn’t.
Told me to be there.There are undeniable similarities between Amelia’s position and mine. Both of us in relationships with controlling men. Except… I love Alex, I know who he is, and I accepted that part of him. Hell, I even likeit—likedit. Damn, I need to get over myself.
But it’s only one night.
There’s always a chance Amelia feels the same about Lukas Van Wyk, but somehow, I doubt it.
That’s the plan, then. Do this gig, find more work, suck it up on the Friday social, get to the point when I can pay him back. Then I can finally be free of him.
As plans go, it’s a shitty one for too many reasons.
That afternoon, certain that Alex will be at work, I drive to his house in Westchester, letting myself in with my keys. The place is empty, just as I left it, and I’m in and out in ten minutes, two options for dresses in their garment bags, and shoe boxes in the back of my car.
Reconciled to the ball in two days.
Who even has aball, anyway? What’s wrong with a normal party, a bit of mingling and avoiding the spiked punch?
Thursday and Friday I spend time digging into Amelia’s past from before she got married. Historical Facebook account (now mostly dormant), her college yearbook and some old transcripts Lucy’s given me. Five years old, and useful only to paint a picture of who she was before. I look for ways to break open this damn case thatdon’tinvolve me walking back into Alex’s orbit, but I can’t find any.
Friday evening, I’m getting ready in the bathroom when Carol walks in from work.
She lingers in the doorway, watching me as I lean over the sink, careful not to let my dress touch, applying the final touches to my light makeup—a soft brown shadow to bring out the blue of my pale eyes.
“Nice dress. So you’re going then?”
“Yes, I’m going. It’s what Lucy’s paying me for, isn’t it?” I choose one of the two lipsticks I brought with me from Westchester: a pale rose.
“What about Ben andJerry’s?”
“What about him?”
“Have you told him you’re going?”
“No. He’s invited me, and I’m not unblocking the son of a bitch.”
