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Gritting my teeth to remain professional, I repeat, “I completed surveillance for four days. During that time, they sat in the living room and kitchen together. Any time he went to the cabin’s bedroom or bathroom, she remained visible in the public spaces.” I check my notes even though I don’t need to, having already told her this information. “She left every evening by six p.m., not spending the night a single time. They never touched intimately. No contact beyond a hug. This should be good news,” I remind her.
She huffs out a disappointed sigh. “Yeah, thanks for nothing.”
“I’m still looking into the woman. I’ll be in contact when I have a name.” I don’t tell Mrs. Webster that I have suspicions about the identity of the not-a-mistress. I don’t think it’d do any good right now when I don’t have the complete facts, but Louisa’s making progress.
“Whatever,” she snaps. She stands, grabbing her to-go cup of mocha-chai-berry-blast-frappe, or whatever the hell that monstrosity of syrups and whipped cream is, and stomps to the door, her heels sharp on the tile floor the whole way.
Eyes in the coffee shop follow her and then flick back to me expectantly, eager to see me make the next move.
This is why I hate people.
I sip my own black coffee, staring back at the gawkers one by one until they drop their gazes and go back to their own phones, laptops, and business.
It’s been ten minutes and the baristas are churning out orders hand over fist when the door opens. I glance that way naturally, cataloging the newcomer, only to find it’s Kayla.
Fuck.
I’m not in the mood for anyone in my family right now. I’m grumpy from dealing with Mrs. Webster and frustrated because I haven’t seen Janey in days. Is she at work? Home? With Dipshit?
That thought brings a deep scowl to my face.
“Hey!” she says with a surprised smile. “What’re you doing on my side of town? And who pissed in your coffee?”
She sits down uninvited, but I’m smart enough to not tell Kayla to get lost. Besides, I can feel fresh interest around me from the few remaining people who saw Mrs. Webster stomp out and now a new woman’s sitting with me. It’s another suspicious-appearing situation that’s completely innocent. Not that any of them think so. They probably think I have dates meeting me, one right after the other, serial player style. I want to yell at them all, ‘One was a client, one’s my sister, and neither are any of your fucking business.’
“Work,” I answer both of Kayla’s questions without explaining anything. At least she didn’t mean to run into me. That gets her a bit of patience.
She nods, not pressuring for information she knows I won’t give. I don’t know when or why my job became such a secret, but it’s been this way for years now and I have zero intention of changing it. I’m not a suit and tie guy like my siblings, minus Kyle, of course. I would go insane trapped in an office, playing nice with arrogant assholes like they do, but they wouldn’t understand that. And Dad would be disappointed, not that I care what he thinks, and Mom would worry every time I went out on a gig, and I wouldn’t put her through that.
“Me too,” she groans in agreement. “I have a meeting this afternoon but needed a caffeine infusion first. Hang on, let me order.”
She goes up to the register and returns moments later with an Americano in hand. I swear in that time, she made friends with the order taker, the coffee maker, and the lady sitting closest to the bar. Kayla’s good at things like that. I think she got all the charm allotment for the two of us.
“What’s your meeting about?” I ask when she sits back down.
She takes a sip before diving in to tell me, “Cameron’s got us on the hook for a former amusement park that’s fallen into disrepair. Feral teenagers have taken it over, so now it has a bit of a sordid reputation as an illegal rave spot. Definitely going to need some major reframing if we’re going to turn a profit with it, but I think we’ve got a good shot. What do you think of Unicorn Universe?”
I picture my niece, Grace, at an amusement park full of unicorn themed rides, sweets, and souvenirs. Gracie isn’t your typical nine-year-old who’d be running through a park shouting ‘best day ever!’ with giddy happiness at a mere unicorn carousel. She’s more the type that’ll tell you the animation is lame and the unicorn-horn hot dogs are filled with nitrites. But she’s the outlier and I think most kids would be the former rather than Gracie’s latter.
“Sounds like a goldmine,” I declare, though I have no idea because again, I’m not a business brain like Kayla. But I do have one idea. “You should sell those headbands with unicorn horns on them and have a coliseum filled with balloons where the kids can ram their heads into them. Pop, pop, pop!”
