The Last Housewife (85)

I nodded. I’d thought about this, considering the kind of men who were involved in the Pater Society, the positions they held, what they had to lose. “I think we need to prepare for every man we out as a Pater to come after us.”

“It’s going to get ugly. I’ll—” Suddenly, Jamie’s eyes flicked over my shoulder, and his face hardened. “Motherfucker.” He lunged around me, streaking across the street.

I whirled, shouting, “What are you doing?”

A man jolted from the bushes across the street and took off running, a heavy black bag thumping at his hip. But Jamie had reacted quickly, and the man didn’t have enough time. Jamie tackled him to the grass.

When I got to them, Jamie was astride the man, pinning him by the shoulders. They were both breathing heavily.

“Get off me,” the man shouted. He was older and heavyset, with oily skin. In the lawn beside him was a professional-grade camera with a telephoto lens.

“Jamie, what’s happening?”

“He was taking pictures of us.” Jamie gripped the man tighter. “Who hired you?”

“Fuck off,” the man said. “You’re on public property. Let me go before I have you arrested for assault.”

I knelt in the cold grass, feeling the blades prick my knees through my pantyhose. “Did the Paters hire you?” If they’d hired this man to spy on me, they already knew I was a fraud.

“I don’t know who that is.” The man stopped squirming and squinted at Jamie. “Get off.”

Jamie shook his head, his black hair wild from running and tumbling. “Not until you tell us why you’re taking pictures. Look, man, I’m close with a bunch of cops. I say the word, and they’re going to find a reason to bring you in.”

Even if it was laughable to imagine Jamie—who hacked into police records and stole case files—close to the cops, he delivered the bluff with confidence.

The man laughed. “I know who you are, asshole. You run a podcast. And you’re talking to a former cop. Any officer you know in the state of New York, I guarantee I know them better.”

“You’re a private detective.” Jamie settled back on his heels. “Hopefully that means you’re smart enough to believe me when I say I’m not getting off your chest until you convince me you’re not a threat to her.”

The man’s eyes flicked to me. “A threat? I’m here to get proof of an affair. What the hell are you mixed up in?”

It clicked. “Cal hired you.”

The man’s face shuttered. “I’m not talking.”

Relief poured through me. “Jamie, get off.”

Jamie hopped off the man, giving him a wide berth, and the detective scrambled to his feet, grabbing his camera, checking the lens. “If you broke anything, you’re paying.”

“Put it on Cal’s tab,” I said, picking up my phone and dialing.

The detective scowled at me. “I didn’t admit a goddamn word.”

Cal answered immediately. “Tell me you’re on your way to the airport. If you’re coming home, we can forget everything. I’m serious.”

“Like the fact that you hired a private investigator to follow me?”

“How—” His voice lost its smoothness. “What was I supposed to do? You’re my wife.”

“That doesn’t give you the right.”

“I know you’re cheating,” he bit out. “You realize you signed a prenup, right? If you leave me, you get nothing. No money, no friends, no dignity. Everyone will know.”

“Ah.” I locked eyes with Jamie. “So the private investigator’s building a case to string me up in court.”

Jamie’s eyes widened.

I could hear Cal take a deep breath. “Shay. Just come home. We’ll go to therapy. Couples’ counseling, however long it takes. Please, try putting yourself in my shoes. A year of newlywed bliss, and one day, out of nowhere, you run away. You won’t tell me what you’re doing. It’s like you don’t even like me anymore. I tried to talk to you, to fix it, but you’re barely answering my calls. I don’t have a lot of options here.”

I did see it from Cal’s perspective. It wasn’t his fault I’d confused safety with love, that what I’d wanted out of marrying him was a place to hide, and then I’d decided that wasn’t good enough. He hadn’t reacted well, and that was revealing, but to him it must have seemed like I’d lost my mind. I pictured him telling his friends about me, the Highland Parkers, and I imagined their incredulous faces, could hear them saying, in shocked voices, She’s insane.

Maybe I was, in his version of the story. I finally felt secure enough in mine that I was okay with letting him have it.

The sharp edge left my voice. “Cal, I’m sorry. I really am. But the truth is, I don’t want to be married to you anymore. You can put these photos of me on a billboard for all I care. I’m not interested in your money, either. I’m sorry to tell you over the phone; it’s just…” It was just that I’d woken to the truth, and now I was simply uninterested in wasting any more of my time. “I’m sorry,” I finished lamely.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” he hissed. “I can’t believe I ever loved you. I never want to—”