Stone Cold Fox (39)

“My friend’s cat just got out and like, hey, did you see someone, I don’t know, strange or odd? In the hallway? The weirdest thing just happened—”

“Sorry, I don’t live here,” I interrupted him. “I was just dropping off a few looks for a client. I’m a stylist,” I explained, never missing a beat when it came to a cover. I had several professions on hand to throw out should a situation arise. Stylist was always one of my favorites. Flashy and fun.

“Okay, thanks anyway.” He slapped the archway of the elevator doors on either side in frustration and then he was gone, completely unimpressed with me and my fabulous made-up career. The elevator doors began to shut again. I was furious he didn’t hit on me. What in the world? Perhaps he was gay, which would make a lot more sense in regard to the Gale of it all. It wasn’t any of my business, but Gale had been meddling in my business with Collin, so all sense of propriety was officially out the window.

I was getting distracted. I needed to focus on the task at hand. If this man was going to be busy looking for the cat, and was potentially a frequent visitor of Gale’s, this could be my only window. Now it was my frenzied hand reaching through the elevator to stop the doors.

I had to go for it.

Risky, for certain, but my breath quickened. How exciting. A ticking clock. A much larger margin for error. I could get caught by my new crush. What a turn-on. So few opportunities for excitement lay ahead post-marriage. The prospect of a caper in the moment was irresistible.

Cat Man had left the door unlocked, and he was nowhere to be seen, so I slithered in with ease, eager to explore the dwelling of Gale Wallace-Leicester. A green gingham sofa was the centerpiece of the living room. Yes, I’m serious. I wouldn’t dream of joking about such an atrocity, clearly inspired by a childlike fascination with Laura Ingalls Wilder that must have stayed with Gale into adulthood. Why on earth did she not hire a professional designer?

Gale’s home was dripping in literal green, from the sofa to the window dressing to the old-fashioned library lamp on her desk in the study, complete with a gold pulley chain. And sure enough, an eyesore bolted to the ground next to the desk, a large green safe that looked like it could have sunk with the Titanic. What was Gale’s obsession with green? Were the rich really that obtuse? She also went heavy on the framed photos. Dozens of gold frames. With her family. With Collin’s family. With Collin. Of her mother, her father, her grandmother, her grandfather, even older vintage photos of her great-grandparents, perhaps beyond. It was endless. She was committed. Old family values indeed.

I shuffled around the desk first and didn’t come up with much beyond a checkbook, miscellaneous office supplies with monogrammed stationery—she would—and an obscene amount of mints. She had reserves. How curious. Seemed more appropriate for someone with a line of Casanovas running out the door, but I imagined it had more to do with her specific brand of neuroticism. At the very least, I could appreciate when someone cares about the precarious state of their breath. Not enough people do.

I thought about turning on her computer next, but I was dying to know what was in that hideous safe. Was it the Wallace-Leicester family jewels? A Fabergé egg or two? A stash of narcotics? As if Gale was fun enough to do drugs. Or perhaps that’s where she kept the alleged ace up her sleeve about me. I had to get inside and examine the contents thoroughly, or as thoroughly as time would allow. I was insatiable. What did she have? Photos of me via a private investigator? With Morris? Or the others? That didn’t prove anything. Copies of my identification documents—perhaps she was reading them closely in search of forged elements? They were undetectable, though. Weren’t they? And she couldn’t have anything from before Bea. Nobody did. But what if? I needed to work quickly, since Cat Man’s resurgence could happen at any moment, but I locked the door just in case. Any jostling followed by muffled cuss words would let me know to opt for the fire escape in a pinch. Wouldn’t be the first time.

To crack the combination, I started with Gale’s birthday, easily located on her social media pages. I wagered she was the kind of person who looked forward to banal well wishes from acquaintances, past and present. March 1. Of course she was a Pisces. Shifty people with little control over their emotions.

I didn’t really think the code would be as basic as her birthday, but I did my due diligence. Alas, I was denied. Another birthday came to mind. Collin Case, born on September 8. A Virgo man. My kind of guy. A crushing need to be seen as perfect, which is exactly the type of pressure I wanted a man to feel in my presence. And the safe opened right up. Gale. Using the birthday of her unrequited love as the gateway to her most precious artifacts? She could be such an old woman, but also such a teen.

I rifled through as quickly as possible. All the usual suspects were there. Her passport. A safe-deposit key. Her birth certificate and other health records. But then I came upon folders upon folders upon folders, alphabetized and meticulously curated, each one labeled with the name of someone in her social circle. A folder for each parent, each friend, each parent of each friend, each friend of her parents.

What a freak!

Naturally, I went for the Cases’ files first. They all had one, some thinner than others. Calliope’s was rather thick, and when I peered inside, there were a fair number of medical records that involved stomach pumping plus minor arrests due to public drunkenness and/or recreational drug abuse in her early twenties. Her mug shot was cute, though. As for Collin, his file was the thickest of them all. It appeared I didn’t have my own file. Rude. Gale likely didn’t want to admit that I was significant enough to have a file of my own in her creepy records, but what kind of psycho kept organized files about her friends and family at all?