The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(115)

"Thanks so much for meeting me," Karen said warmly as we sat down in the living room.

"It's no problem. Why don't you tell me why you called," I replied, gently attempting to push the process forward and eliminate all small talk.

"Right," she began cautiously. "Well, my husband..."

"Mr. Howard?" I said assumingly, jotting down the name in my notes.

"Actually, no. Howard is my maiden name. I gave it to you over the phone because I...I don't know, I guess I was just nervous about the whole process and I didn't want to give out my real name, just in case—"

"I understand," I said quickly, striking a line through the name I had just written on the page. "Many women do that. It's quite normal. I've seen it several times."

I fought to keep my tone calm and steady. The worst thing I could do to this woman was make her think I was trying to rush her. She certainly didn't need to know that I was in a hurry to get through this meeting, especially in the state she was in. I've learned over the years that women in her condition need all the patience and attention you can give them. It's that lack of attention that probably drove them here in the first place.

"So what is your husband's name, then?" I asked.

Karen swallowed hard and fidgeted with her hands. It was as if saying his name aloud to me was making this whole process even more real. A bit too real.

"It's okay," I offered sympathetically. "We can come back to that part if you'd like."

"No, no," she insisted. "I'm fine." She clasped her hands together tightly and held them in her lap. "My husband's name is Jamie... Jamie Richards."





27

Battle Scars


I ABSENTMINDEDLY started to write down the name Karen Howard had just given me until I got to the letter R of his last name. I stopped cold. "Jamie Richards?" I clarified, certain I had heard it wrong.

"Yes," she repeated.

My heart started to pound. I struggled to keep my breathing steady. Surely there were several Jamie Richards in the city of Los Angeles. Surely.

I mean, there had to be.

I attempted a smile. It came out more like a possessed lip spasm. "What does Mr. Richards do?" I asked professionally. "Construction? Medicine? Law?" The speculations were spewing uncontrollably from my mouth like water coming out of a hose that someone had dropped on the ground and suddenly appeared to have taken on a life of its own.

"Oh, God no," Karen said, with a meek smile. "Jamie hates lawyers."

I nodded slowly, practically engaging in a staring contest with her mouth, as I desperately anticipated the next words to leave it.

"Jamie's a marketing consultant," she said, leaning back in her chair, her eyes wandering toward the ceiling. "For Calloway Consulting."

And that's when I threw up.

Not then and there, on Jamie Richards's plush, Burberry married carpeting. Although I really would have liked to have left that little present for him.

Rather, I excused myself quickly, asking – no, more like demanding – to know where the bathroom was, and ran from the room.

I vomited twice in the toilet, flushed, and then rinsed my mouth out with water. I stared into the mirror. All the color had completely vanished from my face. Even my eyes, normally a sharp shade of green, seemed to have turned gray and lifeless. My lips, despite the double application of gloss I had applied before leaving the house earlier, were dull and pale.

I swallowed hard.

This was not happening.

This was not real.

It was all in my head.

I would march out there, double-check all the details, and then reassuringly hear Karen's lighthearted laugh resonate through the room as she said, "You thought I said Jamie Richards? Hahahaha. No, no, no. I said Maley Pichards!"

Yes, that's exactly what would happen.

I wiped a bead of sweat from my brow and another one from my upper lip, flipped off the light switch, and with my head held high in the air made my way back to the living room to put an end to this silly little confusion.

But as I quietly took my seat again, it was evident that carefree laughter was nowhere to be seen – or heard. Instead she looked at me curiously, wondering if this whole running from the room at the mention of her husband's name was all a normal part of the process. After all, this fidelity inspection business was completely new to her.

"Is everything all right?" she asked warily.

I attempted a smile. "Yes, I believe so. Sorry about that."

Karen let out a sigh. "Good, good. Well, anyway. Jamie works a lot." Her emphasis on the word left no doubt that his work schedule must have been a problem area in their marriage.

In their marriage! So it really was happening! I couldn't believe this. Jamie Richards... the perfect, adorable, charming, "Come to Paris with me" Jamie Richards was married! As in "I do," as in "Till death do us part" – or more like, "Till I meet some chick on an airplane who's stupid enough to believe that I would be single!"

Every conversation we had had, every single movement that he had made was swirling around in my head. I tried desperately to slow the images down and look for clues. A wedding ring tan, a mention of a "we," nervousness around the topic of marriage. Something I might have missed. But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing!