CHAPTER 1
It was cold.
It was dark.
And I was alone.
I was hiding in a dumpster in the parking lot of a grocery store at 11.25 p.m., balanced precariously on a heap of eggshells and rotten veggies. I didn’t want to think about what other surprises might be lurking below. I’d been there for so long that my nose had grown accustomed to the vile stench. My legs, however, had gone into spasm from the awkward crouching position I’d been maintaining for the last two hours. It was freezing, my teeth were chattering, my nose was running and there was a family of rats nibbling dangerously close to my ankles.
But I loved it!
This was what I lived for.
Where I came alive.
Where every single one of my senses was alert, tingling and on fire.
For me, Lizzy Brown InQuest, this was more than just a job. It was a calling. Catching lying, cheating husbands in the act, with their hands in, on, under, up and around the proverbial cookie jar, was my life. My trusty camera never lied and I always got my man, or sometimes woman. My phone rang constantly with desperate people seeking the truth. And the truth was what I gave them. Truth was my currency.
And the number one truth was this: where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. Nine times out of ten, I caught them in the act: in a sleazy motel with their secretary pinned up against the wall (soclichéd), in a bar with their hand up a someone’s skirt (so trashy), bent over a chair and spanking their student (so kinky), and one time in Paris celebrating their one-year anniversary with their mistress while the wife and kids were home alone (so devastating).
I’d seen it all. And I’d also heard just about every single excuse from the cheater’s playbook.It was the first time. It will never happen again. It meant nothing.Blah, blah, blah. I’d even heardThe devil made me do it.
I wondered what this guy’s excuse would be as I watched him in the car with the mystery redhead. Nothing had happened yet, but it was only a matter of time. His poor wife had been so desperate when she’d walked into my office, their ten-month-old baby in tow. That had really pissed me off, especially when she’d started blaming herself.Maybe it’s all my fault. I’ve been so focused on the baby, so tired, I’ve put on weight. Maybe he doesn’t find me attractive any more, maybe I need to go to Weight Fighters . . .
And then the moment I’d been waiting for. The man leaned over and tangled his fingers in the woman’s fiery tresses. I thought of the poor wife with baby food smeared in her hair. He whispered something into the woman’s ear and then kissed her. My camera fired into action.
Got him!
And then things started heating up. Clothes and body parts were being grabbed at with a kind of mad fervency. Hubby’s wedding ring glinted in the light as he desperately tore at her shirt, pulling it over her head to reveal perky breasts, abundant and bouncing in red lace. I thought of his poor wife in her uncomfortable feeding bra and my blood boiled.
I stopped clicking and turned away. I didn’t want to watch this any more. I knew where it was going. And most importantly, I wanted to spare his wife the sordid details. This was more than enough already.
I slipped my camera into my bag, then hoisted myself out of the dumpster with one arm. My injured rotator cuff gave a tug as I didthat. I’d been dealing with a shoulder injury for a while now. I wasn’t sure if it had been caused by the rugby I played on a Wednesday evening, the ju-jitsu classes, or the time I spent in the gym lifting weights. Got to keep yourself strong and fit in my line of work. Because over the years, I’d had to climb walls, leap off roofs, leopard-crawl through drainpipes, jump out of planes and trains, and run away from dogs, angry husbands, heavily armed cops and even a half-naked politician (who shall remain nameless).
But I loved it.
The intense rush of adrenaline that came from narrowly escaping danger, and the high you got from catching the bad guy. Obviously my lifestyle came with certain limitations. I was unmarried and hadn’t been in a serious relationship in, well, ever. I lived alone in a small apartment that was in desperate need of a clean, and I had a small – ever shrinking – group of friends who grew tired of asking me out, because I never went. My only companion was Sid, my goldfish. Man, I loved that guy. He was always there for me. He was quiet, never demanding, and easy to please; a few flakes of fish food and some fresh water always did the trick. He was the perfect gentleman. If I could find a man like Sid, I might consider settling down.
But alas, I knew different. Because I knew how relationships worked. Or didn’t work. Watching them implode for a living had made me less inclined to believe in ‘ever afters’, and of course there were the lessons my parents had taught me about love too.
No, in my professional opinion, love looked a lot less like forever and more like burner phones, surveillance footage and lies caught on tape.
CHAPTER 2
I liked to be at the office early, before the phone started ringing and the emails began to pour in. And when I say office, I mean three doors down in my apartment building.
My office was located in the apartment of one Phyllis ‘Philly’ Clarke. We’d started working together about three years ago. She did all my admin and accounting, and arranged my schedule. Philly was a feisty sixty-eight-year-old widow, who’d become my right-hand woman and probably one of my only real, non-aquatic friends.
We met in the elevator after I’d collected my mail and was on my way back upstairs. I’d received a letter from the taxman, and upon opening the little sucker, I noticed at once that there were a lot of capital letters and words written in red. Although I had no idea what the letter was actually saying, I was pretty sure the gist wasYou owe us tax. Pay now. Or else.Philly had got into the lift at the exact moment I was trying to decipher the tax talk, and being the excessively nosy creature that she was, I felt a head pop over my shoulder.
‘Mmm.’ The sound was loud and worried. I’d come to learn that Philly had a penchant for the dramatic; it came from watching too many soap operas.
‘Mmm. Aah,’ she said, even louder this time.
I swung around. ‘Do you have a problem?’
‘No, but you do. A big one.’ She was pointing at the red writing in the top left-hand corner of the letter.
