Page 37 of The Alibi Club

“Devastating in his devotion.”

“Yeah,” Cliff said he sighed. “And this is your emotional support book?”

Jamie let out a short laugh. “Well, you don’t know me yet but I have a dark side.” Jamie held up her drink to toast. What kind of business are we celebrating?”

“Security. I assess, devise, and implement home security systems to keep people and their belongings safe.”

She was impressed. Business owner. Handsome. Dreamy. What was the catch? There was always a catch. Always.

He clinked her glass and they both took a sip. He motioned to the bartender, who came over. “Excuse me, how’s your French fry game?”

The waitress, without missing a beat, said, “Crunchy, hot, and delicious.”

Cliff smiled. “Let’s get an order of fries.” Off went the bartender. Then to Jamie, “Any celebration worth having deserves and order of fries, right?”

If she were to conjure up a man from the ether, witch-style hunched over a cauldron using toe of frog, fang of bat, or some other love potion, she would definitely conjure up someone fine, solid, and honest, but especially someone who would most certainly order fries to celebrate. She couldn’t help but grin. “Right,” she said, “fries are the answer for whatever the question is.”

“Is your dog in the habit of stealing backpacks?” He gazed at her, and Jamie suddenly couldn’t remember her name but managed to fiddle with her straw.

“Dash did not steal it, he made a mistake. In his defense, it looked a lot like my backpack,” she said with mischief.

“I’ll give him his day in court,” Cliff answered, flirting right back.

She felt a hot flash coming on even though she was too young for hot flashes. She made a mental note to look up at what age menopause can kick in like a surprise attack. She was almost certain she felt steam rising from her own neck. She shuddered to think there might be a special version of perimenopause that afflicts the chronically undatable. God forbid. She delicately wiped a bead of sweat from her temple and said, “I’ll make sure he has excellent representation when you file the charges.” They both grinned.

At that moment, the front door of the restaurant flew open and they were interrupted by the loud, cussing arrival of her client Duncan Reeves. She recognized him from his picture in her file. He had wrenched the door to the Arthur J. open with a whoosh followed by a barrage of colorful language.

“Parking in this town blows! I have half a mind to pave over the goddamn beach to accommodate the cars!” Duncan strode over to Jamie and said with a sense of urgency, “You must be Jamie Frisco. Duncan Reeves. I’ve got thirty minutes, so let’s get a table and see if this thing’s going to work. Hostess!”

The electric high Jamie was riding from the previous enchanting moment was instantly deflated by the barked orders from her insistent new client. Jamie looked at Cliff apologetically and said, “Give me just a minute.” She gestured that she was going in his direction as Duncan Reeves stood there, head cocked, hands on hips, impatiently waiting for her to move to the dining room. She looked back at the man at the bar. Cliff.

Duncan chose a small table and started ordering the hostess to get them drinks while she hopelessly but politely kept repeating, “Let me send over your server.”

Jamie took a seat, leaving Cliff at the bar, no longer in view. Trapped for the moment, she set her attention to Duncan while she schemed on ways to make it back over to at least say a proper goodbye to the sexy security expert. Maybe the apps weren’t the only way to meet a guy after all. She’d have to give her rugrat of a little rescue dog a special treat when she got home. She couldn’t help but look back hoping he would not leave, but he was just out of her view.

Reluctantly, her eyes drifted back to Duncan, who had not one but two phones out at the table, checking both obsessively. Jamie cleared her throat.

Duncan released the one he was holding with a sigh and steepled his fingers. “So, Bryan says you’re hot shit when it comes to getting people out of corporate trouble. Just tell me what I have to do so I can get on with my life.”

Charming.

Jamie assessed. Given his vast fortune, Duncan clearly did not spend it on grooming. His hair, unruly and wiry, stood up from his head in a fearful manner, as if shocked by its owner’s behavior. His eyes were small and beady, a patch of dry skin visible on his chin, and he looked perpetually pissed off. The man radiated intolerance and had a habit of scratching a mole on his right wrist. He did, however, know how to dress. He was in dark denim, and wore a short-sleeved navy linen shirt, which Jamie guessed was by Brunello Cucinelli, the preeminent brand popular with tech billionaires.

Jamie’s eyes flitted up to meet those of her client, hoping to get this over with as much as he was. “As you know, I’m a psychologist and I specialize in high-level C-suite executives who are experiencing challenges in their current leadership positions.”

“The woke mob. Yada yada yada, I’m well aware.”

Jamie narrowed her eyes, not that he noticed.

“They’re all coming after me.” He mimed people talking at him with his hand, but his whiny voice tunneled into silence as Jamie tuned out. Peripherally, it reminded her of Pac-Man. His face had started to trend to beet red. She shook her head, trying to pay attention to his rant, but all she could think about was Cliff back at the bar with their fries. She really needed a new line of work. Duncan slammed his fist down hard on the table. Jamie jumped and tuned back in. “Listen, I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to make this all go away. I’ll sign something. I don’t know. What do you shrinks do nowadays?”

We put Band-Aids on pieces of work like you, and hope it holds until we get our paychecks. But she couldn’t say that out loud. Admittedly, it was also a pretty pessimistic view on humanity. On some level, Jamie believed she could help temper negative personality traits, develop strategies to handle triggers, and generally cope with garden variety narcissism, but she was also well aware most people were set in stone. You could chip away at them, make tiny milestones of progress, but the form still stayed close to the original factory settings. The only way people could change is if they chose to change, and most people do not choose to change unless they have a good reason.

“Mr. Reeves, I cannot just sign a release saying that you’re cured. This is a process.” A long, arduous process. “One that your very own board has hired me to assess and adjust as necessary.”

She finally took the time to look deeply at Duncan Reeves: his composure, how he was sitting with one arm flung over the back of the chair, slouched, like a legacy Harvard student whose daddy just gave an endowment. Like he knew this was all bullshit. Like he knew he’d win even if everyone was after him.

Paranoid. God complex. Impatient.