Rain pounds the roof of my parked car as I watch for activity at the two-story brick home across the street. A bolt of lightning brightens the night sky, illuminating the other stately homes on the block. Headlights approach from the rear, and a black Chevrolet Suburban stops alongside the curb in front of the house. The interior lights come on inside the SUV as the occupants—a man and woman—emerge from the other side. When the Uber takes off again, I raise my compact binoculars and follow the couple as they sprint, with raincoat hoods pulled tight over their heads, up the short sidewalk to the front porch. The man’s gait is oddly familiar. How many people own orange raincoats? I dismiss the idea. Too much of a coincidence.
I focus the binoculars on the woman. When she reaches the porch, she peels off her drenched raincoat. I recognize her from social media pics as Nora Riley, the subject of my investigation. She walks into the man’s outstretched arms. He too has shed his raincoat, and I can now see his face. My breath hitches. So it is the rotten bastard.
I wait for the couple to enter the house. Tugging a black cap over my head, I stuff my camera inside my raincoat and dash across the street. I duck down in the shrubs in front of the porch while I catch my breath. Holding the camera up to protect it, I slither on my belly across the wooden floor and peer in the window. Through the dining room, I can see into the wide center hallway where the couple is tearing at each other’s clothes. The sight of my husband’s hand on Nora’s firm ass makes my blood boil. I stand suddenly, but the lovers are too preoccupied to notice movement in the window. Slinging the camera strap around my neck, I remove my handgun from its holster on my hip. With gun aimed at the ceiling, I creep along the front of the house to where the sounds of lustful groans drift through the open front door.
Stepping over the threshold into the house, I extend my arms in front of me and aim the gun at my husband’s head. My finger is on the trigger, and I’m preparing to shoot, when it dawns on me that I’ve been set up. And Lucas is definitely not worth going to jail for. I lower and uncock the gun, sliding it back in its holster. The lovers have dropped to the floor, and Nora is riding my husband like a cowgirl at a rodeo with blonde hair dancing about her shoulders and fake breasts bouncing around like water balloons. I focus the camera lens and press the shutter, holding it down while the camera records dozens of images of their exposed bodies and faces.
Spinning on my heels, I dart across the porch and run, blinded by tears, back down the sidewalk. When I near the end, I slip on the wet bluestone and stumble into the front yard. Righting myself, I traipse through the sodden grass to the street and cross the pavement to my car.
I speed through the streets of Richmond’s Fan District to the dumpy apartment where Lucas and I live. Blissfully in love, I was more than willing to move into his bachelor pad after our spontaneous wedding three years ago. I assumed we would spruce up the place, make it feel more like a home. But Lucas refused to let me paint the dingy tan walls, let alone buy new furniture.
In the spare bedroom we use as a home office, I open my laptop and insert the memory card from my camera. Images of the naked lovers fill the screen of my photo editor. I download the files onto a thumb drive and eject the memory card. I spend a few minutes editing the most revealing of the images, adjusting the highlights and shadows before printing two copies. Pocketing the memory card, I place one of the copies in a backpack with my laptop and camera and the other on Lucas’s pillow in our bedroom.
I fold my hanging clothes into my rolling suitcase and empty my drawers into a duffel bag. When I go into the bathroom for my toiletries, I catch sight of myself in the mirror. My hair hangs in damp strands around my face, and mascara runs in rivulets down my cheeks. No wonder Lucas cheated on me. I can’t compete with glamorous socialites like Nora Riley.
My mind travels back decades to another life. I still remember the haunted look in my mother’s blue eyes, so like the pair staring out of the mirror at me now, when she abandoned my brother and me in front of the police department in Amarillo, Texas. I still remember her words. “I’m sorry it’s come to this. But I never wanted to be a mother.”
I gather my toiletries into a cosmetic case, toss the case into the duffel, and place both bags beside the door. I circle the living room one last time, pausing to stare out of the sliding glass door. Weeds grow through cracks in the brick patio, and the annuals I planted in containers have long since wilted under the summer sun. The hood stands open on the rusty gas grill revealing charred chicken breasts on the grates. The burnt dinner had been the source of our most recent argument. So what if I’m not a gourmet cook? At least I try. Lucas’s idea of an evening at home consists of drinking beer, playing video games, and ordering delivery takeout.
Turning away from the window, I leave the apartment without looking back. I store my luggage in the trunk of my car and drive to the heart of downtown and enter a parking garage. Despite the late hour, men and women in professional attire come and go from the marble and glass lobby. Taking the elevator to the fifth floor, I pass through the law firm’s vacant reception area and walk down the long hallway until I find the man I’m looking for in the corner office. Laurence Riley is working at his ginormous mahogany desk, an antique banker’s lamp spilling light onto the document he’s studying. Riley appears older in person than he sounded on the phone, but he’s a strikingly handsome man with strong facial features and thick dark hair graying at the temples.
I clear my throat before entering his office. Riley looks up, tosses his pen on the desk, and sits back in his chair. “How’d it go? Did you accomplish your mission?”
I jab a finger at him. “You set me up. You knew your wife was sleeping with my husband. That’s why you hired me instead of one of those high-dollar investigators your firm keeps on retainer. Were you hoping I’d go ballistic and kill them?”
His lip curls in a smug smile as he eyes the holstered weapon on my hip. “Well? Did you?”
I glare at him. “I’m not a murderer. When I left your house, our spouses were alive and screwing their brains out.” I drop the photograph and one of the thumb drives on his desk, and hold out my hand. “I want my money.”
He opens his top desk drawer and removes a wad of twenties. “It’s all there. I trust you can see yourself out.”
I turn my back on him and storm out of his office. Returning to my car, I drive three blocks to the high-rise waterfront condominium building where my twin brother lives. I drag my luggage through the lobby and take the elevator to the eighth floor. I pound on Jason’s door until he answers. He’s still wearing scrubs, and his sandy hair is sticking up on one side.
I experience a pang of guilt. Sleep is a precious commodity for him. “Did I wake you?”
“Long day. I fell asleep on the sofa reading a medical journal.”
Despite being fraternal twins, we look nothing alike. I’m the washed-out version. His hair is golden. Mine is the color of wheat. His eyes are a dazzling blue. Mine are pale and dull.
His gaze travels to the suitcases at my feet. “Please tell me you finally left that prick.”
With a solemn nod, I say, “I caught him cheating on me. Can I crash with you for a few days?”
“Stay as long as you like. But take the shoes off first.”
I stare down at my mud-crusted running shoes. “Oops.”
“Have you been mud wrestling again, Jolie?”
“Aren’t you the comedian?” I kick off my shoes. “There.”
“Now you may enter.” Jason grabs my duffel bag and steps out of the way.
My brother’s apartment is spotless and sparsely furnished. He’s an anesthesiologist resident who spends most of his time at the hospital. He has few needs outside of sleep and nourishment.
I wheel my suitcase behind him down a short hallway to the guest room. Jason tosses my duffel onto the queen-size bed and turns on the lamp on the nightstand. “Sheets are clean. Make yourself at home. Have you eaten dinner yet?”
I set my suitcase upright beside the door. “I’m not hungry, but I could use a drink. Do you have any tequila?”
He gives me a that’s-a-dumb-question look. He can’t stand the stuff, but he keeps a bottle of tequila on hand for my infrequent visits.
We return to the living room. I take a seat at the island in the adjacent kitchen, watching Jason as he drops a single large cube of ice in a glass and covers the cube with tequila.
He slides the glass across the granite. “What happened with Lucas?”
“He’s sleeping with some rich lawyer’s wife.” I take a gulp of tequila before walking him through the night’s events.
He listens intently, leaning against the counter with arms crossed. He waits for me to finish talking before asking, “Since when did you become a private investigator?”
I shrug. “It pays the bills.”
“What about your journalist gig?”
“There is no gig. I wrote a few freelance pieces. But none of the news outlets were interested in buying them.”
“And your podcast?”
Holding up three fingers, I say, “I have three subscribers. You being one of them. The other two are random people who wanted follow backs.”
“You’re better than this, Jolie. Why settle for less than you deserve?” He comes around the island and sits down next to me. “You put me through medical school. Now it’s my turn to support you. Why don’t you go to college and get a degree?”
Planting my elbows on the counter, I stare down at my drink. “A degree in what?”
“Journalism. Duh.”
“I’m taking online writing and photography classes. My skills are improving. These things take time.” I run my finger around the rim of my glass. “I’m not like you, Jason. You’re the student. I’m more of a boots-on-the-ground kinda girl.”
“You could always return to the police force.”
“Maybe. I’ll figure out my career later. First, I need to get out of this marriage. Do you know a good divorce attorney?”
“I do, actually.” Jason thumbs through the contacts on his phone. “Chris is young. He doesn’t have much experience, but he’s a real hard ass. He won’t take any crap from Lucas.”
Jason shares the contact and seconds later my phone pings with the incoming message. “At least I succeeded at one thing,” I say.
He looks up from his phone. “What’s that?”
“I broke the record for short marriages.”
Jason nudges me with his elbow. “Come on, Jolie! Plenty of people have shorter marriages.”
“Name one.”
He pauses before answering. “I can’t. I don’t know that many married people.” He shrugs. “You made a mistake by getting married too young.”
I drain the rest of the tequila. “You tried to tell me. I should’ve listened to you.”
“I’m certainly not an authority on matters of the heart. I’ve never even had a serious girlfriend.”
I let out a grunt. “Whose fault is that? You always have plenty of girls chasing you.”
“My schedule doesn’t allow much free time for dating. Besides, relationships are complicated.”
“Don’t I know it.” I rest my head on his shoulder. “You need a wife, bro, a loving woman who will support your career and give you beautiful babies.”
“Maybe one day. I’d like to offer a child the loving home we never had.” He drapes his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, sis. You’ll find the right man, and when the time is right, you’ll make an excellent mother.”
“No way am I bringing an innocent child into this screwed-up world.”
Jason gets to his feet and holds out his hand to me. “You say that now. You’ll feel better about things after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”
I’m too restless to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see Nora and Jason’s naked bodies. After an hour of staring at the ceiling, I get out of bed and rummage through my suitcase for my favorite pair of faded jeans. I button on a loose-fitting black blouse and step into my cowboy boots. In the adjoining bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, touch up my makeup, and brush the knots out of my hair.
Tiptoeing past Jason’s bedroom, I let myself out of the apartment and take an Uber to my favorite watering hole. Carrigan’s is usually packed with young professionals on Wednesday nights. But the weather has kept everyone at home. I sit down at the end of the bar and wait for Drew to notice me.
Drew has a warm and fuzzy effect on me. He’s one of the good guys. He has a huge heart to go with his innocent baby face and angelic blond curls.
About a year ago, after a particularly nasty argument with Lucas, I fled our apartment in a blind rage and landed here where I drank straight tequila while pouring my heart out to Drew. He’s a good listener. Although I’ve noticed he pays me more attention than his other customers. He has a crush on me, which he doesn’t bother to hide. He gives me drinks on the house and tells me I look pretty. I’ve tried not to lead him on. I’ve told him I was committed to making my marriage work. But that marriage is now over. I’ve often fantasized about sleeping with Drew. Now there’s nothing stopping me.
Drew finishes with a customer and makes his way toward me. “Hey, gorgeous. What can I get you? The usual?”
“Please. And make it a double.”
“Uh-oh.” He slides a paper cocktail napkin in front of me. “Trouble in Paradise?”
I shake my head. “You have no idea.”
“Hold that thought.” He makes my drink and places it on the cocktail napkin. “We’ll be closing soon. Better guzzle that if you plan to have another.” He drops his elbows to the bar. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”
“I caught Lucas with another woman. Our marriage is over. End of story.”
“I’m sorry, Jolie. You deserve better than that.” Drew straightens. “But you can’t drop a bombshell like that without giving me the details.”
I pause a beat while I argue with my conscience. I’m obligated to keep my client’s identity private. Then again, Riley set me up. I owe him nothing.
I nurse my drink while I repeat the story for the second time.
When I’m finished, Drew brings the bottle over and pours another splash of tequila in my glass. “I don’t know what to say, Jolie. I know how much you wanted your marriage to work.”
I experience a moment of clarity. “In hindsight, I wanted it to work for the wrong reasons. Giving up on my marriage would’ve meant admitting defeat, admitting I made yet another colossal mistake. Lucky me, I get to add divorce to my long list of failures. My brother is the rock star. I’m the black sheep of the family.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“It’s true.” If only Drew knew the half of it.
I sit back in my chair, noticing the last of the customers have left the restaurant. “Do you need to lock up?”
“Yes. But we don’t have to leave just yet.” He pours himself a draft beer, and comes from behind the bar, locking the front door and sitting down next to me.
“You know, I actually feel an enormous sense of relief.” I hold my shoulders back and head high. “I’m finally rid of the ten-ton weight I’ve been dragging around for three years. Good riddance, Lucas.” I punch the air. “I’m free.”
The song currently playing on the sound system ends, and “Dancing in the Moonlight” comes on. I down the rest of my tequila. “I love this song. Let’s dance.” Before he can object, I slide off the barstool and drag him onto the dance floor.
“This is seriously cool,” I yell above the music. “I’ve never had a bar all to myself before.”
“I agree,” he says, giving me a thumbs-up. “I like being here alone late at night.”
The song ends, and a slow one begins. Hooking an arm around my waist, he pulls me close. He’s only a few inches taller than me, and my body fits perfectly against his. Resting my head on his broad chest, we shuffle from side to side. I feel his excitement against my thigh, and when I look up at him, he brushes his lips against mine. I kiss him back. Our lips part and tongues meet. He walks me backward, pinning me against the wall. His hands are all over me, and my body aches for him. Being with him feels so right. All my past mistakes and hardships have brought me to this point in time. Drew is my guy. We are meant to be together. I feel it in my gut, among other places. But the last thing I want to do is screw it up.
I push him away. “I can’t do this.”
He steps back. “You’re right. Not tonight. It’s too soon. I care about you, Jolie. I’m interested in more than a one-night stand.”
“I—”
My Apple Watch vibrates with a notification from a local news network. The headline reads: HOMICIDE AT HOME OF LOCAL ATTORNEY.
I wave my phone at the wall-mounted television behind the bar. “Quick! Turn on the TV.”
Drew retrieves the remote and powers on the TV, tuning to the local news station. A journalist, her dark hair matted from drizzle, is standing on the sidewalk in front of the Riley house where yellow crime scene tape outlines the perimeter of the property. According to the reporter, city police were called to the scene after the homeowner, prominent area criminal attorney Laurence Riley, arrived home to find his wife shot to death by an intruder.
His wife? What about Lucas?
“What’s going on, Jolie? Do you know these people?”
My eyes remained glued to the television. “I was at that house earlier. My husband was sleeping with Riley’s wife!”
Drew’s mouth falls open and his blue eyes get big. “Do you think your husband killed her?”
“I think it’s more likely Riley killed her. Or had someone kill her for him.”
The camera zooms in on Laurence Riley, who is standing on the front porch talking to police officers. Who better to plan a murder than a criminal attorney? Either Riley killed his wife, or he paid someone to do it for him. But what about Lucas? How does he fit into Riley’s plan?