The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(86)

But I was far from victorious.

And he was clearly far from defeat.

"How do you think she would react... Jennifer Hunter?" Hearing his voice uttering the syllables of my name was like nails on a chalkboard. I could feel my whole body shudder with repulsion

And then all of a sudden, it became painfully clear just how deep his corruption went. Just how much he knew. And just how far he would go to make sure I suffered just as much as he had. To make sure my life was ruined just as his had been. And I realized, I had even more to lose than I'd originally thought.

With my hand on the doorknob and my heart in my throat, I slowly closed the door – once again trapped in the dark, morally depraved confines of Raymond Jacobs's corner office.



LATER THAT afternoon, as I drove to my next destination, I added yet another item to my seemingly ever-expanding list of things not to think about today: what happened in Raymond Jacobs's office. I would have to fully digest that turn of events at another time. Lately I seemed to be getting really good at storing things away to be dealt with at a later date. This would have to be no different.

There was work to be done. More women needed my help. And I would give it to them. Because I had promised to. Despite the existence of creepy, power-hungry businessmen and the shadowy offices that hide their sins.

After pulling into a random Jiffy Lube and persuading the highly skeptical mechanic to inspect my Range Rover for any bugs or suspicious tracking devices that Raymond Jacobs's spies could have attached to my car, I convinced myself that I was thankfully not under any permanent surveillance.

Feeling more at ease, I followed the navigation lady's detailed directions to the tucked-away neighborhood of Topanga Canyon, in the Santa Monica Mountains just inland from Malibu Beach. Ninety minutes later I pulled into a long, winding driveway and followed it for nearly a quarter of a mile, until I reached a secluded mansion carefully hidden amid a forest of pine trees. This was the home of Sarah and Daniel Miller, possible future beneficiaries of my one-of-a-kind service.

"Ashlyn, I presume?" A tall, elegant woman wearing a pink, Jackie O–style suit answered the door. I almost had to laugh at her overly theatrical presence. It was as if she'd been hired to play the part of a self-important prim and proper wife of a well-known political figure. And she certainly looked the part with her perfectly coiffed, bobbed hairdo.

I forced myself to keep a straight face. "Yes, that would be me."

"Please, come in," she said pleasantly, holding the door open so that I could enter. "Can I offer you some tea or coffee?"

My eyes darted back and forth, searching for a hidden camera. This had to be a joke. One of those Candid Camera–type TV shows. Did women like this really still exist after 1962? I mean, I'd seen my share of housewives before, but this was almost too much. I felt like I had just walked into Stepford, Connecticut. Although after reading the book and seeing both films, I knew that the Stepford wives never would have hired a fidelity inspector. It would be against their better programming.

"No, I'm fine. Thanks."

"How about a muffin? I just baked them."

I stifled a laugh. "No, thank you."

"All right then," she said softly. "Let's take a seat in the living room, shall we?"

I followed her petite frame as we walked through the immaculate house and into the adjoining living room. It was an eerie place. Empty and lifeless. Almost as if no one even lived there. Where were all the photographs? Cat hair? Dirty socks and toys that the kids forgot to put away. Not even a single vacuum mark on the carpet.

"It's a beautiful house," I remarked, hoping her response would offer me a much desired clue about its mysterious perfection.

"Thank you," she replied without looking back. "We really like it here."

No such luck.

"How long have you lived here?" I inquired. Two weeks? Two hours? We haven't actually moved in yet?

"About three years," she said mechanically, almost as if she were reading from a script.

She motioned for me to take a seat on the couch and then took the seat across from me, keeping her legs tightly together and her hands folded properly in her lap.

She smiled amicably at me and I did my best to return the smile. This woman did not strike me as someone who was about to hire a fidelity inspector. But then again, you just never know these days. People are weird. Married people are weirder.

"I'm terribly worried about my husband," she began, with little emotion in her voice. "We've been married for ten years and we've always been happy. But lately I've sensed a change in him. He's become distant. Far away. In his own world. We don't even make love anymore."

I swallowed down another inappropriate giggle and bit my lip to hide my expression. I knew this woman's predicament was no laughing matter. No client who hires me is ever in the mood for comedy, and I would certainly lose all credibility if I were to suddenly break out in a laughing fit as a client was explaining her marital concerns to me. But this one was difficult.

I silently scolded myself for being so insensitive and prudently chalked it up to the unusual amount of stress I had been under lately. "Well, I can certainly understand your concern."

"I was told by a friend of mine that you conduct something called a 'fidelity inspection.' Can you explain that to me?"