The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(153)

"Really? I didn't even know that." I turned to the third girl, dressed adorably in a red tank top, red pleather pants, and a red handkerchief around her head. "And who are you?"

She smiled timidly and rocked back and forth on her heels. "I'm Electra."

"Cool!" I marveled. "What kind of special powers does Electra have?" I asked with extreme curiosity.

"Electra's a ninja assasin," She-Ra chimed in smartly. "She can move real fast and she's super flexible. I think she does yoga," she mused.

I stifled a small giggle. "Well, you guys look amazing!"

"Thanks!" chimed Electra, Wonder Woman, and the Princess of Power as they spun on their glitter-covered heels and took off for the next house.

I closed the door with a contented smile and leaned back against it. My mom had disappeared into the kitchen and I was left alone with my thoughts.

But interestingly enough, this time I only had one.

One that would probably shape the next two years of my life.

The world just doesn't have enough female superheroes.





Epilogue

SIX MONTHS LATER ...


I PULL up in front of a tall, thirty-story building in Santa Monica. As I step out of the car, I'm careful to smooth the front side of my Gucci suit. These days, it's all about appearances. Especially when you have a room full of people who look to you for direction and guidance. Wrinkles just won't do.

I hand the keys of my new Lexus hybrid SUV to the man in the valet uniform who greets me with a friendly smile.

This is the same man I see every day. Sometimes, if I have to come here on a Sunday, his weekend replacement completes the other half of the familiar exchange.

"Good morning, Pedro," I say warmly.

He takes the keys and disappears with the car into an underground parking structure reserved for tenants of 100 Ocean Avenue.

I walk briskly through the lobby of the building and into an awaiting elevator. In the past six months I've learned the difference between "walking briskly" and "rushing." Rushing is for amateurs. Brisk walking is for professionals. And as appearances go, it looks much more controlled.

I press the button that promises to drop me on the fifteenth floor, and I wait patiently for it to do so.

The elevator doors ding open, and I veer left down a long corridor and through a set of glass doors that lead into the office at the end of the hallway. The one with the best view of the ocean...naturally.

Why rent an office space in a building on Ocean Avenue if you can't have a view of the ocean?

Inside the glass doors sits a plump but attractive middle-aged woman whose workspace is appropriately situated directly under a large, silver-plated sign that reads "The Hawthorne Agency."

"Good morning, Ashlyn," the assistant greets me in her usual pleasant tone. Although she is actually Hispanic in race, her voice bears not even the slightest trace of an accent. Her English, as well as her Spanish, is flawless. And as I am clearly in the business of client relations, she is integral to the daily operation of this company.

"Good morning, Marta," I return, an equally pleasant salutation.

"Everyone is already inside the conference room," Marta informs me.

I shoot a short glance in the direction of the first door on the left and nod. I'm rarely what most would call on time to these meetings. But my timing is always intentional. Arriving just the slightest bit after the rest of the attendants gives off a certain air of importance.

Although I would never make them wait more than five minutes. After that it's no longer about appearances; it's just plain inconsiderate. And the people in that room are far too valuable to disrespect in any way.

"Thank you. You can tell them I'll be in shortly. Any messages?"

This is Marta's cue to rise to her feet, and she follows me as I glide down the office hallway to the last door on the right. My home away from home.

"Yes," Marta begins, handing me corresponding slips of yellow memo paper as she concisely verbalizes their content. "Your father called. He wants to know if it's all right to move your lunch from two o'clock to one-thirty because he has a conference call at three."

I smile to myself. The last six months certainly haven't been easy in respect to mending the severed relationship with my dad. Four years of silence doesn't automatically fix itself with one honesty-filled phone call. But the fact that we've agreed to get together at least twice a month regardless of our mutually busy schedules has helped things progress tremendously.

"Tell him that's fine," I reply to Marta with an authoritative nod. "But if he makes reservations at Valentino again, can you please ask him not to wear those dirty sneakers this time."

Marta releases a polite chuckle as she scribbles in her notebook, then returns her attention to the stack of yellow slips in her hand. She picks up the next one. "Zo? called. She said that she wanted to remind you to" – Marta cringes as she carefully reads word for word from the small piece of paper – "get a f*cking brain or get your lame ass off the road."

I smile and nod. "Sounds about right."

"And Sophie called. She said to say, 'I'm having a breakdown. Eric's mother is insisting we have the wedding in Chicago because all of his relatives are there, but my parents are refusing to pay for it if we do. Help!'"