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one
“JONES. MELISSA.”
My name being called from the other side of the thick steel bars has me rising from the cold bench and wiping my hands on my jeans.
An officer stands at the far end of the room, looking at me—the lone inmate in a holding cell at the Valor County Jail. He’s probably wondering why a thirty-four-year-old wedding designer with a nice home and two young children broke into a salon in the middle of the night. A high-end luxury salon in the nearby snobbish town of Greenwood Village, of all places. I scratch my head and wonder why myself. I suppose I could blame the wine. There was a vast amount of Whispering Angel Rosé involved in the events preceding the alleged break-in.
“Mrs. Jones, I have a couple of questions for you.” His deep baritone echoes from across the room, where he remains, seemingly in the shadows. His voice is commanding in that tone police officers use on TV to intimidate people.
For the record … it’s working.
This moment is quite theatrical really. Me, a frazzled woman, alone in a cell, while the man in dark navy appraises my every move. It’s like I’m being interrogated, a convict in the spotlight as she’s probed for information. It has my spine standing up straight and a chill radiating up my back as I take a long, quivering breath.
I grip the bars tight, my hands clenched into fists as I shout toward him, “This is all wrong! I’m a good woman, for Pete’s sake.”
“Ma’am, please calm down.”
“Calm down?” My question is exclaimed. “You don’t understand. I’m not a criminal. Yes, I understand you must hear that sort of thing a lot, but I can explain. I tried to tell your friend, Officer I Just Want to Arrest Innocent Women.” I point toward the cinder block wall and not at the officer I’m referring to becausethatman, the one who handcuffed me about two hours ago, isn’t actually in the room.
“When the cops showed up to Bella Boutique Spa, the officer didn’t let me explain my purpose for being there as he read me my rights and cuffed me.” The thought has my chest clenching. “Oh my God, I’ve been read Miranda rights. And handcuffed,” I cry out as I rub my wrists where the metal cinched my skin. “I’m a vagrant. A criminal in the eyes of the law. Did they really need to take a mug shot? I hope it’s more Nina Dobrev than Reese Witherspoon because Nina looked adorable in hers. Granted, she was only twenty. Reese’s was cute, too, but she wasn’t even looking at the camera. As long as I don’t look like Heather Locklear … or Lindsay Lohan …” My ramblings cease, and my eyes widen as the gravity of the situation comes into focus. “I’m a convict. Fucking Tyler!”
With a swift push, I shove off from the bars and start to pace the cell. It’s pretty forgiving in size, and I’m the only one here, so I have plenty of room to walk in a circle as my hands run through my hair.
“It’s bad enough he got the house and the kids on the weekends. Every single weekend. That’s so excessive, don’t you think? It’s what I get for trying to do theright thing. Did you know he cheated?” I ask the officer, who shakes his head and takes a step closer.
“No, ma’am.”
“With Maisie freakin’ Mirlicourtois. I mean, I couldn’t come up with a sexier name for his mistress if I conjured one up myself. I probably would have envisionedDebbie DicksalotorBonnie Bendover, but, no, he had to bed Maisie Mirlicourtois, the only woman in a hundred-mile radius who can do my color.”
His head tilts. “She colors?”
I lift a strand of my orange hair. Yes, brassy orange highlights by someone who clearly can’t do color like Maisie.
“She’s the best hair artist in the state and the only one who has the formula to do my hair the perfect shade of blonde without looking fake, which I haven’t seen since she stole my husband. So, now, not only does Tyler get to keep my entire life, but he also has my hairstylist. And before you assume I care more about my hair than my ex-husband, the answer is yes.” I pause and stare at him for dramatic effect because it’s true. “She can have him. He’s a lying, cheating bastard of a man. I just want my hair back!”
Moisture builds behind my eyes as they well up with a heaviness behind them. I hate Tyler more than I could hate any man. Yet why does the mention of him make me so damn sad? Oh, that’s right—because he was my husband and I loved him something fierce before he went and stuck it to Maisie, the hair goddess.
The anger from the reminder of his illicit affair brings a surge of adrenaline that has me slamming my fist into the cinder block wall.
“Damn it, that hurt!”
As I clutch my now-bruised fist to my chest, I take a seat back on the cold bench and hunch over. I have a wedding to set up tomorrow, and an injured hand is not ideal when you have to hang fifty yards of tulle over an altar to create an ethereal effect. That is, if I ever make it out of here.
The officer takes a few steps closer to the bars. His footsteps heavy against the concrete as he draws near.
“Are you okay?” He sounds sincere.
“I actually liked Maisie. Every six weeks, I sat in her chair and told her my secrets. It should be criminal for a hairdresser to use your thoughts against you. It should be like violating attorney-client privilege or HIPAA.”
My comment earns me a deep chuckle from the officer.
“You should hear what’s said in the barber shop. There’s an unspoken code of what’s said in the chair, stays in the chair.”
I sit up, press my back against the cinder block, and laugh lightly. “Seriously. Instead, I bet she took every morsel and used it to woo him. Not that it was hard. We were quasi-separated. Smart woman to swoop in when she did. I’m such a fool.
“You know what hurts the most? My son, he loves her. Thinks she’s so cool, and he’s right. Maisie’s so damn cool. And beautiful and successful. A catch. A total upgrade.” I sigh, not in awoe is meway, although there’s plenty of that going on. I sigh because it’s true. Maisie is a total catch. “At least Izzy doesn’t see it that way. She hates Maisie. She hates Tyler too … and me for that matter, so I guess that doesn’t count for much.”
“You entered Ms. Mirlicourtois’s salon at eleven thirty in the evening for—”
