The Fidelity Files (Jennifer Hunter #1)(96)

LATER THAT morning I pulled into the Millers' driveway and stepped out of the car. Just as I placed my finger on the doorbell, the front door swung open. Sarah Miller stood in the entryway, smiling ear to ear with an unnatural look about her. But this time it was something I had prepared myself for.

"Fresh-baked cookies?" she offered me as I sat down on the couch.

What kind of wife offers a fresh-baked cookie to the woman who might have successfully seduced her husband into bed? True, he hadn't, but she couldn't have possibly known that for sure. Because if she had, what was I even doing here in the first place? I thought this lady had spent a little too much time in front of an open oven.

"No, thank you," I declined politely. I vowed to remain completely professional and curb my own enthusiasm about the assignment's positive outcome.

Sarah smiled and took the seat across from me. "My husband got home fairly early last night. You're quite efficient," she said with a creepy wink.

"Well, Mrs. Miller," I began, ignoring her unsettling attitude. "This is how it works." I launched into my usual pre-results speech about giving her the opportunity to hear as little or as many details as she feels comfortable with.

She nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. I understand. What happened?"

I took a deep breath. "I'm happy to inform you that your husband passed the fidelity inspection."

Wow, it sounded even better out loud than it did in my head. I watched her anxiously, anticipating the sigh of relief. The tears of joy. The deep breath that she had been waiting to exhale for nearly five days. And maybe even an appreciative hug to go with it.

But it never came.

Sarah Miller looked at me with a baffled and somewhat discouraged expression. "What do you mean, he passed?"

I assumed she simply didn't understand the terminology, and was fairly confident that once it was explained, I would get the response I was looking for.

"I mean," I began willingly, "your husband did not engage in any actions that would imply his propensity toward unfaithful behavior."

Her face remained a blank page, with perhaps one of those confused emoticons that people use in their instant message conversations. The one that looked like: :s. Pasted smack dab in the middle of the blank page.

"I don't understand," she said. It almost sounded like she was arguing with me. Like she was questioning my results. "How could he have passed?"

I wasn't quite sure how to proceed from here. I never thought that a "passed" inspection would get this kind of scrutiny. Apparently, when describing an assignment's outcome, the word positive is a subjective term.

"Well," I stated warily. "He, um—"

But she didn't let me finish. "You must have caught him on a bad day," she speculated accusingly.

My mouth dropped open. She couldn't possibly be serious.

"I mean, did he seem distracted?" she continued. "There has to be a reason. I'm very convinced that my husband is a cheater. I kindly ask that you retest him."

She didn't even flinch. It was as if she were standing at the counter of McDonald's simply saying, "I ordered this Quarter Pounder with no mustard. I kindly ask that you remake it."

"Um, Mrs. Miller," I attempted. "I don't think retesting your husband will change the results. I stand by my assessment wholeheartedly. He was clearly uninterested in any type of extramarital activity."

But she wasn't satisfied with this response. She clasped her hands tightly together in her lap, and I could have sworn I saw her knuckles go white. "Yes, well, if I recall, he came home that night very tired and preoccupied. He wasn't himself. I think, given the circumstances, a retest is in order. He'll be down at the docks on Saturday afternoon. You can bump into him there."

"But..." I protested.

"I'm sure he'll be more than willing to invite you onto that boat of his. You being as pretty as you are."

I couldn't believe what was happening. I bring this woman the best news you can bring a suspicious wife, and instead of being overjoyed and breaking open champagne, or running out to buy some new, sexy lingerie at Victoria's Secret to reward her faithful husband, she simply demands a recount?

I tried to get myself out of it. "I honestly don't think that will do any good, Mrs. Miller," I said as gently as possible.

"I will pay you for a second inspection if that's what you're worried about," she said immediately. "Same fee as before." And with that she was up, off her seat, and back in front of the wooden secretary in the corner. I watched again with fascination as she counted out large bills from the same white envelope, and then walked over to me and shoved them into my hand. "For Saturday afternoon," she clarified.

I studied the equally large, second stack I was now holding. The amount was staggering. I could barely fathom what was going through this woman's head. And before I could say another word, or give it another thought, she was literally hustling me to the door.

"Well, I have tons of housework to do, so I guess I'll speak with you next week."

And that was that. The next thing I knew, I was standing outside the house, wondering what the hell had just happened inside.



"YOU ABSOLUTELY have to let me come!" John gushed the moment I told him about my mysterious "do over" of Daniel Miller's inspection. We were sitting on the floor of my living room, sharing a take-out dinner from the Indian restaurant down the street while half-watching Talk Soup.