The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men

  Lexi followed quietly behind us into the living room and slinked into a seat on the far end of the couch.

  "Lexi," I said kindly, "I think it's best if I talk to your mother alone."

  She slumped in her seat and crossed her arms. "But—"

  "Lex . . ." her mom began in a warning tone, but she didn't finish the sentence. Clearly the tone was enough, because Lexi reluctantly stood up and disappeared from the room. I had no doubt that she would stay close enough to eavesdrop, so I knew I had to speak softly.

  I scooted in closer to Alice. "This is a little difficult for me," I admitted honestly as I clasped my hands in my lap. I couldn't help but marvel at how our roles were suddenly reversed. I was usually the calm one, the one in control, while the person sitting across from me, whether it be in my office or in her own home, was usually the restless one, unable to sit still. But I had to stay professional here. Regardless of how hard this was for me or the fact that it was my best friend who was with this woman's husband last night.

  "I feel as though I'm in a bit of an awkward position here," I continued.

  Alice cocked her head to the side and studied me. "You said Lexi came to you for help?"

  I nodded. Yes, that was a good place to start. I would start there. "She did."

  "What kind of help?"

  I took a deep breath and started apprehensively, "You see, Mrs. Garrett, I run a very special kind of business. With very special kinds of clients, of which Lexi . . . is definitely not the norm."

  God, I sound like a madam managing an upscale whorehouse.

  Confusion flashed over her face. I definitely wasn't off to a very good start. I decided the best way to do this was to just blurt it out and answer questions later.

  "I run a company that provides fidelity inspections for distrustful spouses. Kind of like a private investigation agency, but focusing solely on infidelity."

  Alice nodded as if she understood, but the puzzled look on her face gave her away.

  So I kept talking. "Lexi came into my office because she was concerned about her father—"

  "Wait, Lexi went to a private investigator's office?"

  I nodded with caution. "Yes, apparently she got the name of our agency from a friend who overheard her mother talking about it. At least that's the story she told me."

  I could tell that Mrs. Garrett was starting to catch on. At least the anger lines that were appearing around her mouth and forehead were suggesting as much. "She came to you because she was worried that her father was cheating on me?"

  I struggled with her summarization. "Technically, no. Lexi hired us—well, me, rather—to test whether or not her father, your husband, would cheat on you."

  Now the words made sense. All too much sense, because Alice shot out of her seat and glared at me with a look so intense, I had no choice but to look away. "You took money from a twelve-year-old girl to do some kind of infidelity sting operation on my husband?!"

  Okay, when she put it that way, it didn't sound all that kosher. But I immediately raised my hand to defend myself. "No, Mrs. Garrett, I did not take Lexi's money. I told her I would take on her case for free because she was concerned that—"

  But she didn't let me finish. The disgust was spewing forth from her mouth like verbal vomit. "Who the hell do you think you are? Dragging a child into her parents' private, personal relationship matters, which are frankly much less your business than hers! What kind of a sick, fucking person even does that?"

  The two dogs that had been lying disinterestedly at our feet suddenly caught wind of her excitement and raised their heads inquisitively.

  I could tell this conversation was already getting out of hand. I hadn't even been able to tell her yet about Zoë (or rather, the nameless, unknown stranger I would refer to her as), and already she was dropping the F-bomb. And something told me this woman did not readily curse in everyday conversation. Even the dogs were becoming agitated. I had to wrangle this in if I was ever going to successfully divulge all the information I had come with.

  "Mrs. Garrett," I pleaded, "please calm down so we can talk rationally about this. I didn't say I went through with it." Which was technically the truth, but at the same time a slight exaggeration of it.

  But apparently my tactic was the right one, because she deliberated momentarily before sitting down and forcing out a jagged, "Sorry," through her clenched teeth.

  "I understand that this is upsetting. I was upset myself to see her in my office. Obviously she's not one of my everyday clientele." I forced out a weak laugh in hopes of lightening the mood a bit. It didn't work. Alice continued to glare at me, her fists clenched at her sides.

  I cleared my throat and continued, "The reason I wanted to speak to you in private is that you're right, this isn't any of Lexi's business. It's yours and yours alone. And that's why I'm here."

  Alice eyed me with skepticism, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled heavy breaths. But she didn't speak. And I suppose I should have been grateful for that. I really, wasn't looking forward to being called a "sick, fucking person" again.

  'You see, when I flew to Palm Springs this weekend to conduct the assignment"—I paused, easing into the rest of the sentence—"I noticed that Mr. Garrett was not with the group of people that he was supposed to be with."

  I waited for a reaction, but Alice's face was pure stone. She was beyond letting my words affect her at this point. At least not outwardly. But her eyes told a different story.

  So I kept talking. "Lexi told me that he was supposed to be on a golf trip with some of his friends. But instead I found him with . . . a woman."

  Alice continued to glare at me, rage simmering just below the surface. And I was more than confident that my next words would bring her to the boiling point. But they had to be said. Even if they were the last words I uttered in this room, they were the most important.

  "It was very clear to me, when I saw them together, that Mr. Garrett was having an intimate relationship with this woman." I paused momentarily, searching her face for a sign that I should continue or just stop there. I received no confirmation either way. "I wanted to tell you this in person because I firmly believe in my heart that it's the right thing to do. That you deserve to know. That's why I started my agency in the first place, because I wanted to help people—"

  And before I could finish the sentence, I felt the sting of Alice Garrett's right hand making contact with my cheek, and my head whipped around so fast from the impact, I nearly lost my balance.

  My head went fuzzy, and I couldn't follow my stream of consciousness. Not that I had much of one at this moment. My hand rose instinctively to touch my throbbing face as I struggled to come to terms with what had just happened.

  But I wasn't given much time.

  "Get out." Her voice was unyielding and striving for impassiveness. But the slight waver in her tone suggested it was a losing battle.

  I slowly lifted my head to look at her, my whiplashed neck screaming in protest. "Mrs. Garrett . . ." I started softly, still in shock.

  "Get out of my house, now!"

  One of the dogs let out a distinctive bark that seemed to perfectly echo Alice's calm yet alarming intensity.

  It was definitely time to go. And my pulsing, red hot cheek couldn't have agreed more. I quickly rose and reached for my bag. "If that's what you want," I said obligingly.

  "What I want?" she repeated, the revulsion dripping off her tongue, but her voice never rising past the level of a simple indoor conversation. The combination was staggeringly intimidating. "You think any of this is what I want?"

  I put up both my hands, palms facing out, in what I prayed would come across as a peaceful gesture. "That's not what I meant. I'm sorry. I know that this is shocking news. . . ."

  "No," she stated firmly, walking toward me menacingly. Her composure was slipping at an exponential rate. "What's shocking to me is that you, a complete stranger, think that it's your place to walk into my life, fuck everything up, and then act like
you're doing me some kind of favor. That's what's shocking. I think you need to get off your high horse for one second and take a good long look at your life, because whatever good you think you're doing here is a delusion. One that you've obviously created for yourself to help you deal with your own fucked-up issues. You're not helping people. You're destroying them. You're meddling where you shouldn't be meddling. And all the while, you're trying to plug some kind of emotional leak that's so deeply rooted in yourself, you can't even remember where the hole was to begin with."

  By now she had backed me all the way up to the front door. I could feel the cold, hard metal of the doorknob jab against my spine. But that didn't stop her. She was still coming closer, the space between us shrinking with every ominous movement of her body. The fury in her eyes had completely transformed the innocent, unassuming person who had answered the door only a few minutes ago. She had become something else. A creature, almost. Talk about a wolf in sheep's clothing.

  I could just see the headlines tomorrow morning: FIDELITY INSPECTOR HACKED TO BITS AND FED TO DOGS.

  My hand made contact with the doorknob, and I twisted it hard. It opened and I pulled it toward me, closing the infinitesimally small gap between us even more. "I'm so sorry to bother you, Mrs. Garrett," I sputtered. "I'm just gonna . . . you know, go."

  In the crowded space between her, me, and the doorway, I somehow managed to spin around and squeeze through the narrow opening that had appeared behind me. The moment I was outside, I expected the door to hit my ass as it slammed behind me. But when I didn't hear anything, I snuck a quick glance over my shoulder as I hurried down the tulip-lined walkway.

  Alice was just standing there, the door open wide behind her. Her eyes followed me all the way back to my car. For a minute, I feared that she might be memorizing my license plate, taking mental notes on the make and model of my car. And then as soon as I was gone, she'd call in a favor to one of her Mob connections. At this point, I wouldn't put anything past her.

  I threw the car in gear and peeled out onto the street. I didn't need to steal a glance in my rearview mirror to know that she was still there, watching me like a mother bear who had just chased a predator from her den and was now making sure I didn't come back.

  But she needn't have bothered. There was no way in hell I was ever going back there.

  28

  empti-mess

  By the time I pulled into my garage later that night, my cheek was still throbbing. I had spent the rest of the day wandering around Brentwood with an ice-blended caramel macchiato pressed to the side of my face in an effort to alleviate some of the burning sensation.

  But it really wasn't the impression Alice Garrett's hand had left on my skin that was bothering me. It was the impression her hurtful words had left on my mind:

  . . . you're trying to plug some kind of emotional leak that's so deeply rooted in yourself, you can't even remember where the hole was to begin with.

  And it's true—these were not words spoken by someone in a calm, rational frame of mind. These were words spoken by a spiteful woman who had just been given the shock of her life from a complete stranger . . . whom she had just slapped.

  But like my bruised cheek, they stung nonetheless.

  No . . . they burned. Burned deeper and more painful than any words had ever done before. And believe me, I've had many insults thrown my way in the past three years. It kind of comes with the territory. I've been glared at, splat at, bribed, attacked, and even condemned to hell on a few occasions. This is definitely not the kind of business to go into if you're a fan of flattery.

  But this was different somehow. This was personal. This hit home.

  Or at least the home I thought I had. But walking through my front door now that night had fallen and Alice's words were still haunting me, I wasn't even sure where my home was. Or who was supposed to live there.

  When I looked at myself in the mirror nowadays, the reflection wasn't the same hopeful, determined person who had moved into this place three years ago. And it wasn't the same person who had fallen in love inside these very walls, despite her persistent efforts not to. It was someone else. Someone who had suddenly become lost along the very path she'd always thought would get her where she wanted to go.

  And then there was him.

  He was gone.

  His stuff was gone.

  Even his smell was gone, despite the fact that I'd refused to call the maid service in almost two weeks in a desperate attempt to keep his memory there as long as I possibly could.

  But it was fading fast.

  I headed into my bedroom and creaked open the top dresser drawer. I pulled out the familiar blue velvet box and popped the lid. The diamond inside sparkled with the same unparalleled brilliance. It was amazing how it never dulled, even though the love behind it was gone.

  As I carefully removed the ring from the box and slid it on my finger, I half expected the power and intensity of it to overtake me and knock me off my feet. But it was just a ring. Just a piece of jewelry. Constructed in a factory somewhere by an underpaid worker who knew nothing of my life.

  Maybe a diamond was just a diamond. Maybe it didn't mean anything. How could it represent anything if it refused to stop sparkling? If its essence refused to dwindle away just as his had?

  And the hole he had left behind—not only in my heart, but in my house—was still gaping. I was so foolish to think that I could ignore it. That I could talk myself out of feeling it just by insisting that I was better off without him.

  Maybe Alice was right. Maybe I was just trying to plug some kind of emotional hole that was slowly draining me of life. How unsettling it was to think that a perfect stranger had been able to see through me with such clarity, while my own outlook was so terribly opaque.

  The thought sent shivers to my body, and I returned to the living room and plopped down on the couch, reaching for the afghan under the end table. I wrapped it tightly around me, as if I were swaddling a newborn baby, and fell ungracefully onto my side, curling into a ball.

  My house was a mess. Dirty laundry scattered throughout, coffee mugs and cereal bowls strewn about the coffee table, dust settling on the furniture. It was a scene that normally would have made me hyperventilate. But right now, I didn't mind the clutter. It seemed like an appropriate extension of the clutter in my mind.

  I pulled my legs tighter against my chest and buried my face in the soft yarn of the blanket.

  And that's where I found it.

  The one place where Jamie's smell still lingered. Nearly two weeks and a thousand secret tears hadn't washed it away. Maybe yarn was more resilient like that. Maybe it clung to scents better than any material in the world.

  I breathed in deeply, trying to use his scent to conjure up other memories in my head. Like his face, his hands, his hair, the way his arms felt when they wrapped around me.

  There were no tears. It was almost as if this kind of sadness was beyond crying. Beyond all conventional reactions to pain.

  There was just . . . emptiness.

  I woke up the next morning with the worst hangover of my life. I hadn't drunk a drop of alcohol, but the emotional indulgences that I had partaken in had left me with a far worse headache and overwhelming sense of nausea.

  I lifted my head just enough to peer at the clock on the cable box. It was nine in the morning. I hadn't moved for twelve hours straight.

  I didn't want to go to work. For the first time in my life, I felt there was no point. If I was really just trying to "plug some hole" in my pitiful existence, then why ruin other people's lives in the process? The way I had apparently ruined Alice Garrett's. Because, let's face it, who was I really kidding here? I wasn't helping people. I wasn't "waking" them up from a bad dream. I was putting them in one.

  Todd and Joy Langley would still be married if it weren't for me.

  Darcie Connors would be holding a brand-new baby in her arms.

  Alice Garrett would still be blissfully happy. Maybe she'd be
blind to the truth, but she'd still be happy. And what's wrong with being happy?

  I was happy once. And it was amazing. And now it's all fucked up. And that's what I did for all those people. I fucked up their happiness.

  I had no desire to go into the office, but my sense of obligation finally pulled me off the couch. I had a ten A.M. meeting with a potential new client and another one later that afternoon. Both appointments felt like thorns in my side. Nails in my coffin. Whatever.

  I could call them all off and hide out in this house for the rest of my life, or I could fulfill the commitments I'd already made.

  I dragged myself down the hall, into my bedroom, and into a pair of sweatpants and a questionably clean T-shirt that I found crumpled on the floor of my closet. I didn't even bother showering or putting on any makeup. My usual motivation to look presentable and well put together was buried somewhere beneath the rubble of all my destructive thoughts.

  I trudged through the front door of the agency dressed as though I were on my way home from a slumber party, with a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and my oversize sunglasses covering the ugly purple bruise that was starting to form around my left eye.

  Hadley noticed my new "look" right away. She studied me curiously from the door as I mumbled some kind of greeting and then breezed right by her on my way to my office. I collapsed in my chair, spilling the coffee down the front of my T-shirt. I made a half-assed attempt to wipe away the stain and then simply shrugged and took a sip before resting my head against the back of the chair. I guess now there was no question whether or not the shirt was dirty.

  It didn't take long for Hadley to appear in the doorway, a blatantly concerned expression plastered across her face. She approached my desk slowly, almost tiptoeing, as if she were afraid the slightest movement might startle me. She was completely silent. Not a word. And as she inched closer, I picked up my head and watched her, wondering what she might do. What do you even say to a sight like me?

  Hadley studied me for a minute. I could feel her eyes on me. And I was already planning out in my head what I would say to her if she mentioned my current state . . . or ensemble. Nothing.