The Match (Wilde, #2)(46)

“What exactly are you insinuating?” Jenn asked.

“I think it’s pretty obvious. Marnie is what we used to call—it’s probably politically incorrect now—a ‘fame whore.’”

“Now just wait—”

“Stop acting like you have no idea what I mean. It’s insulting to both of us. Your sister auditioned for all kinds of reality shows, but she never got cast. No one noticed, no one cared. She did manage to get cast on a tiny network spinoff—only because she was the sister of Jenn Cassidy—and she was eliminated in week one. Her fame, whatever there was of it, plummeted. But lo and behold, ever since Marnie outed your husband and destroyed your marriage, well, now Marnie is a big star. She’s got that judging gig on RuPaul and—”

“What is the point of all this?”

“Maybe Marnie lied. Maybe she made the whole thing up.”

Jenn closed her eyes and shook her head. “No. Marnie didn’t lie about Peter.”

“How can you be so sure?”

She opened her eyes. “You don’t think I was skeptical too?”

“Of your sister?”

“Of everything. Do you know how reality TV works?”

“No.”

“It’s all an illusion. It’s a theater, sure, but it’s more like a magic trick. You can’t trust anything you see. I live with that every day. So yes, I trusted my sister. I still do and always will. But I wasn’t about to throw away my marriage based on a podcast drama.”

“You said your sister was easily manipulated. You thought that maybe—”

“I didn’t think maybe anything,” Jenn half snapped. “I wanted corroboration.”

“And you got it?”

“Yes.”

“From?”

Jenn took a deep breath. “Peter isn’t a very good liar.”

Hester usually kept the questions coming rat-tat-tat style, but she paused here to let Jenn elaborate.

“Peter admitted it. Right here. Right on this very couch.”

“When?”

“An hour after the podcast.”

Hester’s voice was soft. “What did he say?”

“At first, he insisted that none of it was true. I just sat here and stared at him and stared at him and I tried to make eye contact and he couldn’t. Oh, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe him so badly. But I could see it in his face. That’s how stupid and na?ve I was.”

“Did he try to explain?”

“He said it wasn’t what I thought. He said I wouldn’t understand.”

“What did he mean by that?”

Jenn threw her hands up in the air. “Isn’t that what all men say in these situations? Maybe it was the stress of being on the show and living in the public eye. Then you add in our infertility issues. With Peter’s background, that part was especially tricky, I think. He really wanted to have children of his own.”

“What background?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said because of Peter’s background, the infertility issues were trickier. What do you mean?”

“You don’t know?”

Hester shrugged a no-idea at her.

“Well, of course,” Jenn said. “How would you know? Peter kept it a secret. I didn’t even know until we were married.”

“Know what?”

“Peter was adopted. He has no idea who his birth parents were.”





Chapter

Eighteen



When Katherine Frole comes to the door, I am dressed like a celebrity who pretends that they don’t want to be recognized.

What does that entail?

Simple. A baseball cap. And sunglasses.

Every celebrity—okay, let’s be fair and say Most instead of Every—does this, even though it’s such an obvious move. Whenever you see someone indoors or in a place that isn’t sunny and they are wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, well, are they doing so to make sure that you don’t recognize them—or are they signaling to the world in bright neon that they are important, that they are someone you should recognize?

Don’t listen to their protests: Celebrities want to be recognized. Always. They don’t exist without that.

I, however, have no interest in being recognized. Especially today.

Katherine is happy to see me. That is good. It means she doesn’t know about Henry McAndrews yet. Interestingly enough, she points to me—at my cap and sunglasses, to be more specific—and asks, “What’s with the disguise?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, ducking into her office. “You know how it is.”

“I’m surprised to see you again. It’s just that I already broke protocol for you—”

“And I’m grateful,” I add quickly, smiling as widely as I can.

Katherine says nothing for a moment. I worry a bit because she works in law enforcement, more specifically, the FBI. That comes with its own set of problems, but I can’t worry about it now. Katherine wears a fitted blouse and skinny jeans. In short, I can see she is not carrying.

I, on the other hand, sport an oversized yellow windbreaker. It hides my Glock 19 well.

I have only fired a gun once. Well, three times actually. But all three shots were fired back-to-back, bam, bam, bam, so I count it as once. I heard that aiming was difficult and tricky in real life, as opposed to what you see on television and in movies, that you need a lot of training and experience.