“His mom said ‘no’ wasn’t an acceptable answer.”
I let out a long, draining sigh.
“Rich people,” Blake said. “Am I right?”
“Why did you let her in?”
Blake’s cheeks reddened. He picked at a nail. “You know how pushy Bill Welch was?”
“Yeah?”
“How he kept having his assistant call about his son over and over again after you said no and recommended other PIs, and how he sent you all those emails telling you that the names you sent were unacceptable, and we were both like, ‘What the hell is his problem?’ Remember all that?”
“I remember, Blake,” I said. “It was a week ago.”
“Well, his wife, Mrs. Welch. Lydia.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s worse.”
On cue, the door to my office opened. A tall blond woman stepped out, sporting head-to-toe Chanel, a fresh blowout, huge but tasteful diamond stud earrings, and a look on her facelike she wanted to speak to the manager—and rip her limb from limb if she didn’t get her way.
Blake shuddered, noticeably.
“Lydia Welch?” I said to the woman.
“Sunny Randall,” she said. “We need to talk.”
Three
Before today, I’d seen Lydia Welch only once, and that wasn’t even in person. I’d seen her in a family photo that she’d shared on Facebook five years ago, taken at the Welch summer home in Nantucket on the Fourth of July.
Surrounded by her loved ones, Lydia had struck me as laid back, relaxed, and very down-to-earth, especially for someone in her tax bracket. It just goes to show how misleading social media can be. Granted, she was on vacation in the picture—and clearly in a much better mood. But the Lydia Welch I encountered in my office could have easily pulled a set of quietly elegant brass knuckles out of her Birkin bag and knocked Facebook Lydia senseless.
I asked Blake to bring us two cups of his coffee, and he practically sprinted out of the room.
Lydia Welch and I spent about a minute getting situated—me behind my desk and Lydia on one of the two comfortable leather client chairs I’d bought about a month ago, when I’d spent my newfound surplus on an office renovation.
Then, for what felt like a few hours but was probably around a minute, the two of us just sat there. There was a lot of throat clearing on my part, a few well-placed glares on hers. For someone who had led with “We need to talk,” Mrs. Welch was distinctly nonverbal. It felt like a power play to me. Whoever cracked first and spoke lost.
I lost.
“Mrs. Welch. If this is about your son, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“Of course it’s about my son,” she said. “Yes, youcanhelp me find him. And youwill.”
“I already told your husband, I’m not the right person for the job.”
“I read theGlobearticle,” Lydia Welch said. “You’re the best out there. That makes you the right person.”
“I’m flattered,” I said. “But the truth is, Mrs. Welch, Dylan hates me.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Oh, no, it isn’t.”
“Why?”
