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“I don’t think he is,” she murmurs.
I grunt in reply, not agreeing or disagreeing but curious as to what’s led her to that conclusion.
“No, seriously,” Janey says quietly. “Look at them. But mostly, look at the way they’re touching. It’s like they’re close, but not intimate, not like lovers who’ve seen each other nakey and done the nasty.”
Her supposition is ridiculous. I’ve done hundreds of these types of cases, and I have never had a wife turn out to be wrong about her husband’s dalliances. Women have a sixth sense about these things, and men tend to think they’re smarter than they are. Like Mr. Webster scheduling a ‘work meeting’ but booking a cabin under an email that his wife easily snooped on. I mean his password was the pet name he calls his purple-gray Range Rover, Amethyst, and his own birthday. It’s like he’s asking to get caught.
But Janey’s also mentioning something I already noticed. The vibe here is justoff.
"I think she’s an escort. They just haven’t ‘done the nasty’ yet.” I use her phrasing automatically, though I couldn’t explain why I didn’t say ‘fuck’ the way I normally would.
She hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. But also, there’s a small but notable resemblance between them, especially their noses. See the slope? It’s cute on her but kinda snouty on him.”
“Nose job.”
Mr. Webster and the woman sit down on the couch, their knees touching. Now we’re getting somewhere. I take a few more pictures of their new position.
“I think they’re father-daughter. The vibe is more Dad than Daddy.” I don’t say anything, and she keeps going, full steam ahead, though I sincerely doubt she has another mental or verbal speed. “I’m good at watching families. I do it all the time at work, and I can tell when people are close and when they’reclose, ya know? My favorite is when ‘cousins’ come in, but they are not relatives. Or if they are, that’s a whole ’nother issue. But their kids don’t know that Dad’s been dating since Mom died, or that Mom has a secret boyfriend who does more than play bridge with her once a week, so they come up with some story about a long-lost relative who comes to visit when the kids aren’t there.”
I sense her nodding definitively, like she’s certain she’s right.
I hate to say it, but she’s echoing what I’m seeing in the camera. Mr. Webster and the woman aren’t getting any closer, their touches aren’t any more intimate, and if anything, they seem to be talking animatedly. If they don’t already know each other, their conversation would be more stilted, and if they do know each other, they’d be more comfortable touching. They’re somewhere in between close and strangers. I hate the non-definitive ‘in between’.
“I’ll have to call my office.”
Though I’m considering that Mrs. Webster might be my first-ever client to be wrong, or at least wrong about her husband’s activities for this particular weekend, I take a few more pictures. Thankfully, Janey doesn’t say a word.
What she does is seemingly forget about Mr. Webster and the mystery woman completely because she turns over to her back and stares at the umbrella of trees over us. She’s only quiet for a few minutes before she starts talking again. But I suspect her brain has been going lightning fast the whole time because she jumps into a train of thought mid-track. “How many shades of green do you think there are?” she wonders. “There’s got to be at least a million hues, some we can’t even perceive with our eyes. That’s what cones do—see the colors—and the rods see light. Together, that’s our vision.”
“You sound like a textbook.”
“Been accused of worse,” she mutters casually. This time, it doesn’t seem like she’s trying to be quiet because I asked her to, but rather it feels like her entire personality just went small. She even wiggles a bit like the hurt is fresh.
I don’t like it. Not one bit. I certainly didn’t mean my comment as a dig. “Like what?” I growl as I cut my eyes her way. “By whom?”
She laughs, the sound bright in the woods, and I can’t hush her, not when it’s such vibrant happiness, but she does it herself, slapping her hand over her mouth and apologizing with her eyes. “Nothing that mattered,” she whispers, reassuring me when she’s the one who was insulted. “People lash out sometimes, especially when they’re hurting, physically or mentally. They shouldn’t do it, but when you’re in that much pain, spreading it around makes it duller somehow. Sometimes, because it means you’re not alone—like misery loves company—or sometimes, because releasing that pain gets it out of your heart. Like popping a pimple—bloosh.” She flicks her hands like a release of infection, which is a pretty accurate, if not gross, description of stored-up emotional pain.
She’s been hurt, that much is obvious. But she’s handled it herself and uses it to see the best in others. It’s an enviable and inspiring trait. One I don’t share. People who hurt me get hurt right back. Exponentially.
“Sounds good for the hurter, but not for the hurt-ee,” I reply, lowering the camera and peering at her fully. She’s distracting me, which is dangerous, but I’m not sure I care.
She smiles as though that’s perfectly acceptable. “I can handle it.” But then something draws her attention and her eyes jump to some point above me. “That was an owl! I thought they only flew around at night, but it was right there. Look!”
One look toward the cabin tells me that Mr. Webster and the woman are still sitting on the couch, chatting away. I should pay attention to them. I’m getting paid to do so, after all, but the truth is... I can’t deny her. I flip over to my back, and she snuggles into my side, getting our faces close together so she can point at an angle I can see. I follow to where her finger is indicating and see a brown-gray owl perched on a branch. But after a quick glance, my eyes are drawn to Janey.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she says on a wispy breath. She jumps from philosophical enlightenment to childlike excitement over a bird in a whiplash second.
Remembering what she said, I lift the camera to take a few shots of the owl. “Now I’ve got pictures of birds doing birdy things.”
She smiles. I don’t see it so much as feel it in the air around us. The stupid picture makes her happy.
I give myself two minutes to enjoy the moment, vowing to get back to surveillance when my internal alarm goes off. But I don’t make it thirty seconds until Janey’s constant wiggling and squirming is driving me mad.
Is she trying to hump my leg? At that angle?
“What the hell are you doing?”
“My back hurts,” she admits as she does the worm dance in the dirt like an actual, literal worm.
