The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(146)

But I didn't tell her any of these things, because I felt it wasn't my place. And I knew that when I was in her shoes, when I had come face-to-face with the decision to sink or swim in my sea of regrettable mistakes, I had chosen to swim. I had chosen to find purpose in those mistakes. And if someone had warned me of what was to come, I doubt I would have listened. I doubt it would have put me off my mission for even a second.

I saw that willpower in Lauren's eyes, and I wouldn't have done anything in the world to try to take that away from her.

"It was just time to stop," I said simply, in response to her question.

"So, do you have any advice for me? A place to start? Where to begin?"

I almost had to laugh. It was as if she were seeking business advice from a tax attorney. Should she set up an LLC or a corporation? And in that case should she opt for an S corp or a C corp? And what the hell did I know about C corps?

I had stumbled into this job... and in all honesty, I had stumbled out as well.

I shook my head. "Not really. I don't really know what to tell you. I can refer all my future business to you, if you'd like."

Lauren's eyes lit up like a car's headlights illuminating a dark country highway. "That would be perfect. Thank you!"

I smiled back at her, but frankly, the whole thing just felt very odd. Like I was being asked to pass on my legacy key to the next lucky recipient. Although I honestly wouldn't use the word lucky to describe her.

But I suppose legacy was accurate enough.

Ashlyn had certainly left her mark on the world. And I suppose it would be difficult to follow in her shoes. But as I left the café that night, I felt a pang of emptiness. Like a part of me was missing. A part of me that I had gotten very used to over the years. And I supposed I truly would miss Ashlyn from time to time.

She did have some really nice shoes.



WHEN YOUR entire house is decorated in white, you would think that one, tiny out-of-place object would stick out like a sore thumb. A red stain on a white sofa. A piece of black lint buried inside the white Burberry carpeting. An unsightly blue pen mark stretched across a whitewashed wall.

So the fact that I hadn't noticed the small, mysteriously misplaced object under my dining-room table until that night, when I came home from the coffee shop, was somewhat surprising to me.

I tilted my head in bemusement as it caught my eye all the way from across the living room. When you live in a place as immaculate as mine, strange, unfamiliar articles don't go unnoticed for long. So I immediately wondered why I hadn't seen it earlier, like when I was leaving. Or the other day when I came home from Raymond Jacobs's office. Or the morning I arrived home from Paris. (Although that day should be omitted given the nature of my condition at the time – I probably wouldn't have noticed a herd of elephants sitting around my table smoking cigars and playing poker. Or rather, I probably wouldn't have cared.)

But I certainly noticed it now.

Granted, it was mostly white itself, thus lending an obvious rationalization to its extended oversight. But as I drew closer, crouching slightly to get a better look at the peculiar trespasser, I noticed that it wasn't completely white. It was speckled with some type of black markings. And upon even closer inspection, I concluded that the markings consisted of handwriting in black ink.

As I approached the dining room, I stuck my foot far beneath the glass table in an attempt to trap the item under my shoe and drag it out into the open.

But my foot couldn't quite reach it.

So I reluctantly got down on all fours, crawled underneath the table, and retrieved the object by hand.

As I pulled myself to my feet and casually flipped the item over in my hand, I immediately felt a strong wave of nausea flow over me.

It was Jamie Richards's business card, showing up once again at the most inopportune time. Evidently (and appropriately) knocked from its coveted place atop my glass table and landing facedown on the white carpet.

I fought back the queasiness in my stomach, and with a deep, surrendering sigh, I walked into the kitchen, opened the trash compactor, and held the card dangerously over the top. Then, with one last look at the name I'd read and touched a thousand times, I released the card, and watched it float aimlessly into the bin.

And just as I was about to close the trash compactor drawer once again, flip the switch, and bring it to life, I stopped and thought back to all the times I'd picked up that card. Some had been to call Jamie for a confirmation, some had been to attempt to cancel a date, and some had just been for the sake of staring at his name on a piece of a paper.

But there was one thing all of those times had in common: never once had I noticed writing on the back.

As I reached into the trash and picked up the card again, I thought back to the day I had first received it:

"I think it's my last one. I've been saving it for you," Jamie had said, handing it over. "Look, it's even got some of my random scribbles on the back from when I ran out of scratch paper."

I flipped over the card and read the so-called random scribbles.

September 26th. 11:00 a.m. 1118 Wilshire Blvd.

I scrunched up my face in confusion. Why did that date and address sound so familiar?

September 26, 1118 Wilshire. September 26, 1118 Wilshire.

I quickly fished my Treo out of my bag and navigated to last month's calendar page. September 26: Recall on Range Rover. Eleven A.M. Location: 1118 Wilshire.