But instead I calmly stood up, grabbed my bag, and quietly made my way toward the door. I wasn't sure how much longer I would be able to just sit there and do or say nothing. "My work is done here."
I opened my bag and removed a small envelope and handed it to Mr. Ireland. "This is the remainder of your retainer. If you have any additional questions about the assignment, please feel free to call me."
I walked straight past Lauren, feeling her angry stare burning an imaginary hole through my blouse. She looked me up and down, sizing me up, trying to find something to hate about me. Something she could use as an excuse to forgive her cheating fiancé.
I stopped just short of the door and turned around. In the most compassionate voice I could possibly manage to force out of myself, I said, "I know this is hard. And it's not my place to judge or tell you what to do. Whatever you choose to do with the information I have just relayed is entirely up to you. But just know this..." I lowered my head and prepared myself for something I had never said to a client before. But this time, somehow I knew, it needed to be said.
Lauren Ireland faced me, waiting for me to speak. The look on her face said, I could care less what you're about to say, but the look in her eyes said, Please, tell me. I'm so lost right now.
"Parker Colman is the cheating type," I began. "I knew it the moment I saw him. And trust me, whatever you believe he did or did not do with me...he'll do with someone else. I've seen so many marriages fall apart because of cheating husbands and women who choose to stay blind to the truth for far too long. What I've given you today is a glimpse. A glimpse into what could be and what you can change. Believe me when I tell you...it's a gift."
I placed my hand on the doorknob and started to turn it, looking back once more before walking out the door. "Life's too short to live in the dark," I said to Lauren, and maybe somehow, some way... to myself as well.
14
Fwd: Fw: Fw:
I AWOKE the next morning to the sound of very loud knocking.
With every second I tried to drown out the noise it became more difficult to do so. Then came the melodic tones of my doorbell. I checked the clock on my nightstand. It read 7:42 A.M. I groaned loudly.
People have got to stop waking me up in the morning.
I pulled myself out of bed and treaded slowly to the door. Judging by the urgency of whoever was on the other side, opening that door was apparently the only thing that would stop the incessant knocking and ringing. The mellow chimes I had chosen for my doorbell in hopes they would be soothing to the ear certainly weren't serving their comforting purpose at this moment.
I peered through the peephole and immediately let out an aggravated sigh. I should have known. Who else would be so persistent?
"I can see your eye in the peephole!" John's voice came loudly through the thick wood.
"I'm opening it!" I called back as I unbolted the top lock, followed by the second lock, and then swung the door open.
John was already halfway inside my living room by the time the door was fully open. "It's about time. I was standing out there for five minutes."
"I know," I stated, annoyed. "I heard you."
"Look, Miss Huffy, I don't know what got into you last weekend, and truth be told, I don't really care. We have bigger fish to fry this morning."
"Since when do we ever fry fish in the morning?" I asked, weary and still half asleep.
John clearly wasn't amused. "What I mean is, we have a problem."
"I know, I know," I said with a yawn, and closed the door. "Zoë already called me. Look, she's just as much to blame for this as I am. I don't know why I have to be the one to—"
"What are you talking about?" John called back at me as he began searching my house for some unknown object like a bloodhound on a missing person's trail.
"I'm talking about Sophie," I replied, fairly certain he was referring to my current non -speaking terms with my best friend.
"What about her?" John stuck his head in the corner behind my dining room table, and then seemingly unsatisfied, moved into the kitchen.
I cocked my head to the side. "Isn't this about...?" My voice trailed off. Clearly it wasn't. So then what was it about?
I watched John open the cabinet above my kitchen's built-in desk. "Do you have a search warrant? What are you looking for?"
John left the kitchen and headed down the hallway toward the bedrooms. "Your laptop."
I hurried after him, not exactly thrilled at the idea of him snooping through my stuff. "Why?"
He turned and faced me, his hands on his hips. "You have some explaining to do."
I shook my head. "What are you talking about?" Then I paused and thought about what time it was. "Wait a minute, aren't you supposed to be at work?"
John was the assistant to a big-time Hollywood talent agent who insisted that John arrive no later than seven every morning so that he could sort through his boss's morning e-mails, search the industry trade magazines for articles appropriate to his line of work, and most important, get his office organized from the night before and his coffee prepared to perfection.
John turned into my office, and upon spotting my open laptop sitting on my desk, sprinted toward it and started maneuvering the mouse. "I was at work but I told them I had to leave for a doctor's appointment."
I stood behind him and ran my fingers through my dirty, uncombed hair. "Why would you do that? You never leave work."
"You'll see..." he said with dire suspense, typing an address into a fresh Web browser.
I sighed. John was being overly dramatic. Exaggerating like he always does. Making everything into a mini–soap opera episode. Sometimes it was amusing to watch, but at 7:45 in the morning it was just plain annoying. And, for the life of me, I couldn't understand what could possibly be important enough for him to leave work.
That is... until I saw what was now on my computer screen.
And suddenly I understood.
I let out a loud, pained gasp. My eyes widened as far as my half-awake eyelids would allow them. I simply couldn't believe what I was seeing.
John watched me, his eyes, his hands, every part of his body asking for an explanation... no, demanding one.
I ignored him, staring blankly at the screen. Studying it. My whole body seemed to go into shock. "Where did you find this?" My voice was shaking.
"What does it matter where I found it, Jen? What the fuck does it mean?"
I scratched my head as my natural instinct kicked in. Find the lie. Find the diversion. Think of a simple explanation and then build a story around it.
But my mind was blank. There was no explanation. There was no lie. And that was all there was to it.
John studied me as I continued to stare at the screen, completely speechless.
Staring back at me... was me.
There were at least half a dozen pictures of me, all taken in random places around my neighborhood. There was one of me picking up dry cleaning, putting gas in my car, driving, eating lunch, coming home from a Pilates class. There was even one of me walking down the street, sipping a latte from Coffee Bean. And the one thing that all of them had in common: They were all taken without my knowledge and, more important, without my consent. Which is pretty obvious from the fact that I'm not even looking into the camera. They almost reminded me of those candid pictures you see in Us Weekly magazine. The kind the paparazzi are paid thousands of dollars for. There's always a caption underneath saying something about how celebrities are just like normal people because they pick up their own dry cleaning or because they drink coffee while they walk...obviously implying that the American public thinks celebrities incapable of walking and drinking at the same time.
But that wasn't the caption for any of these pictures. The Web site wasn't focused on the fact that I was skillfully walking and consuming a hot beverage simultaneously. In fact, it wasn't focused on anything I was doing while the pictures were being taken. But clearly something I had done before the pictures were take
n.
Think this woman is hot? Beware!
She goes by the name of Ashlyn, and if she tries to seduce you,
she was probably hired by your wife.
Don't let what happened to me happen to you!
Panic-filled questions raced through my mind. The most imminent being: How did they find me? How did they know where I would be?
The chance that a former assignment had just happened to be there when I was getting coffee and filling up my car with gas and eating lunch and coming home from Pilates, and then just happened to have, from the looks of it, a very professional camera on him every single time seemed ludicrous and out of the question.
No. This person clearly knew where I lived. They had followed me...on more than one occasion. But how? I was always so careful to cover my tracks to diminish the chances of this very thing ever happening. If they had followed me home one day, I would have noticed. Especially with the insanely indirect route I made a habit of taking.
Unless a client gave me up, in a moment of weakness. A desperate attempt at last-minute reconciliation, perhaps. But even they didn't know where I lived. Or my real name to use to track down my address.
Was it possible that I had slipped up somewhere? Used a credit card where I should have paid cash? Drove directly home instead of making my usual six turns? Signed my real name on a hotel room receipt?
I took a deep breath and looked at John. "Listen," I said sternly, "I need to know where you found this."
He could sense the urgency in my voice. He looked from me to the screen and the familiar face in the pictures that was suddenly no longer familiar to him. "The link came in an e-mail forward from a friend."
My eyes widened again, certain I had misheard him. "An e-mail forward?"
John nodded solemnly.
"Because your friend knew that you knew me?"
He shook his head. "No...." He hesitated. "Because he thought it was amusing."
Amusing. The word stung me. My professional career – amusing. My life's work. My mission. My only quest and purpose on this planet was considered... amusing.
"So like, one of those forwards that you pass along to your friends and somehow it manages to circle the globe in a matter of days?"
He nodded again and I felt the room start to spin. I steadied myself on the desk.
"How did anyone even get those pictures?"
"Oh, they have people you can hire for that sort of thing, darling," John explained. "Spy photographers or some shit like that."
My arm gave out from underneath me and I fell helplessly back into my leather desk chair. I held my head in my hands. John knelt down on the floor beside my feet and stroked my head. He still didn't know what to make of any of this. But he did know one thing: It certainly wasn't amusing to me.
"But these pictures were almost all taken on different days. I remember each and every one of these outfits I'm wearing. For instance," I said, pointing at the screen to the picture of me filling up my gas tank at the 76 station down the street in a pair of jeans, a pink-and-cream-colored camisole and a dark gray sweater. "I wore that to a poker lesson I had last Thursday. That means that the photographer has been following me for the last week! It's creepy!"
John nodded sympathetically.
"How would he even know where to find me?" I asked, not really expecting an answer.
John remained silent as he waited patiently for the initial shock to wear off. "Is it true?" he finally asked.
I lifted my head and looked into his eyes. They were soft and focused. But the most comforting sight of all was that there wasn't even the slightest trace of judgment.
I nodded.
John nodded back, quietly taking in the truth. I watched him react, seeing the wheels turning in his head. The puzzle pieces were all falling into place. The mysteriously empty spaces that were once breezed over and quickly forgotten about were suddenly filling with meaning and explanations that made perfect sense.
"They hire you?" John asked in a soft, inquisitive tone.
I nodded again.
"To test their husbands?"
I sighed. "I call it a 'fidelity inspection.' I've been doing it for the past two years. I wanted to tell you guys, I swear. But I was sure you'd all judge me. Especially Sophie."
John laughed and stood up, looking down on me. "Judge you? Honey, I idolize you!"
"Huh?"
"You're bringing 'em down. Taking on the cheaters. Freeing the world of evil. That's some serious shit."
I suddenly found myself laughing as well. "Well, I think that's taking it a little far, but..."
"Fuck that!" John said triumphantly. "I'm all for it. In fact, I think it's brilliant. You're practically Wonder Woman." He placed his hand on his chin and waxed pensive. "Hmm... maybe I should get myself into this business. I bet you get a lot of ass that way..."
"John!" I exploded, standing up and slapping his hand away from his chin. "I don't sleep with any of them!"
"You don't . . . but I would." He continued his deep contemplation charade. "Yes, I can see the advertisements now. 'John's Cheater-Buster Business.' It'll be a huge hit."
I rolled my eyes and sat back down in my chair, pulling it up toward the desk. "Isn't 'gay cheating' an oxymoron? Go back to the office. I have work to do."
John leaned over my shoulder, suddenly extremely interested in whatever I was doing on my computer. "What kind of secretive, cool spy stuff do you have to do? Steamy IM conversations with adulterous husbands? Elicit correspondence with desperate housewives?"
"No," I stated firmly, pushing his face away and typing wildly on the keyboard.
"C'mon, I need more details. Do you dress up in kinky outfits? Do you speak with cute accents? Do you—"
"John," I interrupted him, narrowing my eyes.
He stamped his foot on the ground like a petulant child refusing to eat his vegetables. I simply shook my head, trying not to crack a smile. John had a unique way of making me laugh no matter what was happening in my life. And I don't think he even realized it.
"I need to do some research on this Web site." I squinted at the screen and read the site's Web address aloud: www .dontfallforthetrap.com. I grunted. "Wow. Well, aren't they clever," I said sarcastically. "I don't even set traps. I follow, not lead. The guy who put this site up is probably some fucking loser who can't even take responsibility for his own stupid actions."
John, still not giving up on his pursuit of details, grabbed hold of my T-shirt and started yanking on it. "Jennnnnn, pleeease. I neeeed something!" he whined.
I relinquished a sigh and turned my chair to face him. "Fine," I began indignantly. "Yes, once I had to do a British accent because a client said her husband was a sucker for girls with accents."
John nodded, half satisfied. "And..." he prompted.
I let out an incredulous laugh. "And just the other day, I dressed up as a flight attendant."
"Now, that's what I'm talking about!"
I shook my head in wonderment as I turned back toward the screen. I scrolled up and down the page, searching for information. Clues that might help me solve this nauseating mystery. I frowned. "There's absolutely nothing on here that could even hint at who was behind this."
John shrugged his shoulders. "You can always look it up on one of those Internet registrars. Like whois.com or something."
I turned and eyed him curiously. "What?"
"They have databases online that hold all the public records for Web site domain purchases."
"How do you know this?"
"I stalked a boy at work once."
"Ah." I nodded, and turned back to the computer. "How'd that turn out for ya?"
He shrugged again. "We dated for a week."
I opened another Web browser and navigated to the registrar John had mentioned. I typed in the name of the Web site that was blasting my, until now, well-kept secret to the world and hit Search.
Another window popped up filled with several lines of incomprehensible gibb
erish. I scanned the text for a recognizable name or company or something. But the only thing that made even the slightest bit of sense was the constant repetition of the word anonymous.
"What the hell does all this mean? Anonymous?"
John leaned over my shoulder and read the screen. "Yeah, that's what happened to me. It means whoever put that Web site up chose not to make their identity known to the stalker world. It's really a travesty, in my opinion. I mean, taking away every man's right to harmlessly stalk, what happened to the First Amendment?"
"John, I'm not a stalker."
He walked over and plopped down on my office couch. "Tomato, to-ma-to."
With a frustrated sigh I closed my laptop and turned my chair to face him. "This is horrible."
"Look on the bright side. You're the next Star Wars kid."
"Huh?"
John crossed his legs and leaned back, soaking in the spotlight of my attention. "Remember that kid who filmed himself having a lightsaber fight in his garage? And someone got ahold of the video and blasted it all over the Internet?"
"Vaguely."
"It's called viral marketing. Entertainment companies use it all the time for publicity. It's when something noteworthy gets put up on the Internet and it spreads like wildfire by word of mouth alone. Usually through e-mail forwards. Such as the case of yourself."
"Great." I sulked. "So I'm the new face of viral marketing."
"That's the spirit!"
I rubbed my forehead with my fingertips and moaned loudly. "What a morning."
"Can I make a suggestion?" John asked in all seriousness.
"I'm not doing any accents."
John stood up, walked over, and put his hand on my shoulder. "Narrow down your search."
I bit my lip. "I know . . . but I don't even know where to start."
"I have to get back to work. But you should start by thinking about who would possibly want to put up a Web site like that."
"Um, John... that could be over two hundred people. It's not like any of those men were exactly pleased after I left. I mean just the other day I..."
I suddenly stopped, my mouth hanging open, my mind racing.
"What?"