The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(11)

I stuck my head into the laundry room to see Marta emptying out the contents of the suitcase from last night's trip into the washing machine.

"Thanks, Marta. Have a great weekend."

Her head popped up. "You're welcome, Miss Hunter. You will need your suitcase again tomorrow?"

"Yes, actually I will," I replied. "I'm flying to San Francisco in the morning."

"Okay, I wash it now," Marta said, reaching to the shelf above the washer and dryer and removing a scrub brush and a bottle of industrial-strength disinfectant wash.

"Thank you."

I'm sure she had all sorts of interesting questions about me. Who is this girl? What kind of job keeps her away from home nearly five days a week? How is she able to afford a place this nice at such a young age? (At twenty-eight years old, I was the youngest home owner in the complex.) And most important, why on earth do I have to disinfect her suitcase every time she comes home from a business trip?

But she's never asked me any of these questions. And so I've never felt compelled to make up any stories to answer them. For all I know, she probably thinks that I visit toxic waste sites for a living, or spend my free time roaming the halls of the Centers for Disease Control without a biohazard suit. But that's how I treat everything that could have come in contact with the cheaters I meet... like level-4 viruses. Dangerously airborne, extremely deadly, and with no known cure.

I stopped in front of the mirror hanging next to the front door. My long dark hair was pulled away from my face in a loose ponytail.

I scrutinized my reflection.

Something was missing. Did I forget to touch up my mascara?

I leaned in to examine my eyelashes. They looked as black as ever against my green eyes. Maybe I was just tired from the flight this morning. I also hadn't slept very well last night.

I took one last look, painted on a bright smile, and was out the door. But not before a longing glance back at my spotless living room.

As much as I enjoyed the traveling life, it was kind of a shame to have such a nice house when I was so rarely in it.

I took Wilshire Boulevard back to the 405 and settled in for the long drive down to Newport Beach. The heart of the O.C. (the show and the county). And Anne Jacobs's home easily could have been featured on any one of the O.C. episodes, with its mansion-like appearance and sparkling infinity pool overlooking the ocean in the backyard.

Anne was my third client from Newport Beach in the past month. Word spreads fast in that town, especially when you're a rich housewife lounging at the local spa all day, sharing gossip and, apparently, fidelity inspector phone numbers with other rich housewives.

My normal rate is very high. It's amazing how much people are willing to pay for the truth. To me it has always been priceless. And I guess a lot of people feel that way.

The client also pays for all of my expenses. Flights, hotel rooms, transportation, food, you name it. Anything that will help them get to the information they're seeking. Price is usually not an issue. So it's no surprise that most of my clients have the money to live in houses the size of hotels.

Peace of mind is a hard thing to find these days. And the reality is: Most people will pay for it. That's why I have a job.

I turned onto Anne Jacobs's street, followed it to the end of the cul-de-sac, and then pulled into the long, paved driveway that led up to the house.

There it was, in all its splendor.

I had been there once before, a week earlier when I took on the assignment. The house was still as magnificent as it was then...but somehow, it seemed to have lost its sparkle.

Most of the houses I enter are beautiful. But as I've learned, the house is quite often a facade. A mask that would have you believe the inside looks just as beautiful as the outside. And yes, the designer furniture and marble countertops are quite lovely, but the real inside, the inner workings, the relationships are never quite as glamorous. It's a shame, really. We want so much to believe that the insides of these multimillion-dollar homes overlooking the ocean are filled with love, happiness, and trust. But most of the time they just aren't.

My job tends to take off the mask.

"Mrs. Jacobs," I began gently once we were seated in her now-familiar living room. "Are we alone in the house?" I asked.

"Yes," she assured me. "The kids are still at school."

I have a very strict no-children policy when it comes to my job. They are not allowed to be present during any part of this process. Not because I don't like kids. I do. But if there is one circumstance where I'm an advocate for bliss in the form of ignorance, it's during childhood. No exceptions. Kids should never be burdened with the weight of adult relationships, especially those of their own parents. It's hard enough to be a child in today's world. They already see more than they should. I wasn't about to be responsible for irreparably tarnishing the innocence of anyone's child.

"Good," I replied.

She nodded nervously. She was an attractive woman, petite and fairly fit. The lines on her face represented years of PTA meetings, carpooling, and late nights waiting up for her husband to come home from work. I could feel the anxiety radiating off of her like warmth from a space heater. I felt for her. I really did. Being in her shoes was a difficult place to be. But I knew that by hiring me, she had taken the hardest, first step.

The first step down the road to a happier and more honest existence.