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“I’m a private investigator, hired by the guy’s wife to get proof of his affair,” I say shortly, and though I never move my concentration from the camera’s viewfinder, I’m ready to analyze her reaction to my bomb drop reveal.
Mr. Webster says something, his face earnest as he smiles at the woman. Judging by the openness of her mouth, she squeals in response and jumps toward Mr. Webster, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight embrace. It takes less than a blink for his surprise to turn to joy and his arms to thread around her waist.
Click, click, click.
I’ve got him. Or at least this is the start of getting him.
“You said the wife thinks he’s having an affair?” Janey asks.
“Mmhmm.”
“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 just off.
"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’re close, 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?”
