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“Mr. Harrison, as your attorney, I highly advise that you give this some more thought. There is no logical reason for you to give your estranged wife a penny more than what’s listed in that agreement There were no children produced during the marriage, so I mean it when I say there’s absolutely no reason for you to agree to any of her requests.”
“You’re right, there isn’t.”
The man stood. “So you’ll
give my advice some thought, then.”
Jack pursed his lips. “No. I intend to sign today. I want to get this over with. There’s no reason to drag it out. You see, David… May I call you David?” he asked pausing but not long enough to allow the man to answer. “I realize that what’s in those papers means nothing to me. I’ve worked my whole adult life building all of this.” He motioned around the room. “I’ve made many people very rich, and in the process, I’ve done quite well for myself. But you know what? Very few of those people are truly happy. All they care about is the bottom line. All they want is to obtain more, more, more. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. About what it is that I want, about what makes me happy. And there are only a few things on that list. One would be those photographs,” he said pointing toward the wall. And the other is my place on the lake. The rest, well… the rest I really couldn’t give a shit about.”
The man nodded although his expression gave nothing away. Clearly, he thought Jack had lost his mind. “Ok, then, I’ll have everything drawn up and sent over by close of business.”
Jack stood and shook the man’s hand. “Just so you know… I plan to sell the business once the divorce is final. Not that it really matters to me, but she’ll actually get a whole lot less by agreeing to these terms than she would otherwise.”
The attorney frowned. “I see.”
“I just thought you should know that I haven’t completely lost my mind.”
“No. But whatever she has on you must be pretty substantial for you to be so generous.”
Jack smiled and nodded in the direction of the door. “Guilt. Remorse. Regret. I’ve always found that they typically cost about the same.”
TWENTY-TWO
Jack’s secretary buzzed him. “Mr. Harrison, there’s a Mr. McDowell here to see you. But I don’t see him on your calendar, sir.”
“It’s ok. Send him in, please, Sherry.”
The man entered Jack’s office and sat before being asked. Jack had been told he was the best at what he did, but thus far, Jack hadn’t been so sure. Even with the best private investigator, three weeks had passed and nothing. Not a trace of her. The magazine refused to give any information saying only that she was a contractor, and while they gave her a list of suggested shots and locales—they did not have the final say on when she visited each location. Sam McDowell, a man not much older than Jack himself, looked worn. He looked decades older, his eyes tired and downcast. Which could only mean one thing: no new information.
“So.” Jack broke the silence. “Anything?”
The man pulled a folded set of paperwork from his back pocket. “Nothing concrete. But I was able to locate an email address and pull a travel manifesto—places we believe her to be visiting in the next few weeks.”
“Well, that’s something,” Jack said. “How’d you get the information? Maybe there’s more where it came from.”
The man looked at the paperwork before handing it over and smiled slightly. “Don’t ask.”
Jack read through the documents and glanced at the photographs. “South America, huh.”
“Yeah. It’s not a lot to go on. But I wanted you to have it, just so you understand that progress is being made. No matter how slow it may seem.”
Jack looked at the paperwork and then back at the photographs. “I’m going to book a flight.”
The man didn’t look the least bit fazed. “Mr. Harrison, I’m not sure that is advisable at this point. We really don’t have enough to go on—not enough in order to make it worth your time.”
Jack smiled at the investigator. “Do you see all of those photographs, Mr. McDowell?” He pointed at the wall. “Every so often at random I receive the same padded envelope addressed to me here at my office. There’s never a return address, but she always sends several photographs. Each one has a note on the back saying where it was taken. These photographs are her messages to me. They’re clues as to where and how she is, to how she sees the world at any given time. But you’d have to know her to understand that. And if there’s anything I know, it’s Amelie and how she travels. I’ve travelled with her for over half of my life. So trust me when I say, I know a thing or two about her habits.”
The man nodded. “But have you considered that perhaps Miss Rose doesn’t want to be found—that perhaps this is the reason she never leaves a return address, the reason that her own mother can’t tell us where she is?”
Jack rubbed at his chin. “I’ve considered that, yes. I just don’t buy it. She’s making herself difficult to find and yet, not impossible—hence the photographs. The thing about Amelie, Sam, is that you always have to work a little bit harder than you’re comfortable with.”
That afternoon, Jack sat down at his desk and composed an email to Amelie. He typed, deleted, typed, and then deleted some more before finally settling on this:
To: Amelie Rose
From: Jack Harrison
June 28, 2012
