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But Liv loved this house, and always, she generously opened it up to friends and family who needed a place to stay. It had a massive library, where she wrote, and several rescue animals that warmed the place up. At any given time, visitors filled the extra rooms, and the home was filled with lots of laughter and music every weekend.
At the moment, the house was fairly empty. Marc, a writer friend of Liv’s from Warsaw, was staying for a few months while he workshopped his new book.
And then there was me.
I had done more than a few stints on Pearl Street. Liv and my old room always welcomed me back with open arms. It’d been several years since I’d bunked here last, and for a time, I really thought I’d never come back.
But life had a funny way of boomeranging a person around when they least expected it.
Even after resigning from the state police and losing my paycheck, benefits, and future pension, I optimistically thought I could swing it. But ultimately, I’d had to sell my condo. The mortgage and taxes put me in too much of a pinch when I started my business. I’d wanted to get away from that life and those goals anyway. It had been a soulless place. New construction, beige walls, the same shitty granite countertops in every unit.
I’d purchased it because it felt like the right thing to do. But in the end, it became one more thing dragging me down, shackling me to a life and a version of myself I didn’t like.
So I’d sold it, made a tiny profit, and moved back in here. The rent was cheap, my best friend was here, and there was always Diet Coke in the fridge. One of her rescue cats had taken a liking to me. His name was Chris Hemsworth, and he came up most nights for a quick snuggle before tiring of me and wandering off. Those moments alone were filled with more affection than I’d gotten in the last few years. Or for the entirety of my childhood.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re lying in bed fully clothed at”—Liv checked her watch—“5:18p.m.?” She sauntered through the open door, her dirty blond hair was pulled up in a wild knot on top of her head, and she was wearing a camisole and a hot pink silk shawl.
“Did I interrupt your sprints?” I asked.
“Nope. Hit my word count for the day. Was gonna make gnocchi tonight. You game?”
A smile spread across my face, and I nodded. Liv was a fantastic cook. She claimed that it was an effective procrastination strategy. When her characters weren’t talking to her, she would make beef Wellington or baked Alaska or any number of complicated, time-consuming meals.
Her dinner parties were legendary, both because of her cooking and because, when she inherited this crumbling old mansion, she also inherited its fully stocked wine cellar. Back when we were broke twentysomethings, we’d uncork five-hundred-dollar bottles of wine to pair with our ramen noodles.
“I’ve got to work late tonight. Thought I’d rest for a bit. I had a weird day.”
She flopped to the mattress beside me and surveyed the crumbling medallion in the ceiling. “Another stakeout? This fucker is too slippery.”
She was right. I had been chasing this guy for the last two weeks, desperate to get the evidence my client needed. Which meant lots of cold nights in my car, bored out of my skull.
I was working a matter for Diana Gainsborough, a society lady and woman about town. She was married to Dr. Gainsborough, who was a member of one of Portland’s old shipping families and a close friend of my father’s. They had four kids, two houses, and dozens of marital problems.
Diana had hired me to find evidence of her husband’s infidelity in order to nullify their prenup. Along the way, I had discovered he was hiding assets from his soon to be ex-wife. I’d also stumbled upon some fun insider trading. I’d be sure to tip off the DA once I got what I needed for my client.
Gainsborough was a scumbag. I had him at strip clubs and I had him bribing city officials, but so far, I hadn’t been able to snag photographic evidence of him banging his mistress. He was crafty and evasive. He wasn’t particularly secretive, but I was still working to understand his patterns. Sometimes he’d drive himself to their trysts, and other times, he’d use a ride share.
But despite all the tailing I’d done, I had a hunch that I hadn’t dug up all I wanted. And I wanted it all so I could nail him to the wall. Diana would be fine regardless. She was wealthy and well connected in her own right. But there was something satisfying about sticking it to a terrible man.
“This guy came to see me today. Pascal Gagnon.”
She rolled over, snagging one of my pillows and hugging it to her chest. “That name sounds familiar.”
I scrolled through Instagram on my phone, looking for a photo of him I had found earlier. He didn’t have social media as far as I could tell, but his youngest brother did. He was a professional athlete of some sort and had shots of his family on his profile.
Perhaps I had spent the afternoon stalking Pascal Gagnon online. I’d gathered as much information as I could about his family’s lumber business and the death of his father, Frank Gagnon, two years prior. It was what I did. I dug and dug until all the answers were revealed.
“Here.” I held up my phone.
“Hmm.” She took the device and held it out over her head, using two fingers to zoom in on the photo. “I don’t know him, butdamn,” she said, handing it back to me. “How do you know him? He ask you out?”
I snagged a throw pillow from above my head and swatted her with it. “Jesus. No. He was an informant in a case I worked a couple of years back.”
She sat up, eyes wide. “A case orthecase?”
I bit my lip. There was no use dodging the question. When she got that look, she was like a dog with a bone. “Thecase,” I mumbled, rolling over and pressing a pillow to my face, which Liv promptly pulled off.
I stared at the wall, studying the old wallpaper until my eyes lost focus. The case. The one that had ruined my career. The investigation that had gotten fucked six ways from Sunday.
