The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(61)

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. "Zo? 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.