don’t spend time together outside charity events and salon appointments.
Stephanie’s beloved Chihuahua has been sick, and she can’t seem to shut up about the veterinary bills her ex-husband refuses to pay. It’s fine by Marin, who’s content to half listen while thinking about other things.
“It’s his dog, too, you know, Mar? We agreed we would share the vet expenses—it’s, like, in writing in the divorce agreement. Like, he’s a fucking joke, pardon my language. Guy made eight mil last year and he can’t pay for half the seven thousand to get the fucking cysts out of the fucking dog?” The word dog comes out daw-ug. “Sorry for all the f-bombs. Sometimes I can’t believe I was ever married to that guy. Hey, how’s Derek? Count your lucky stars you got a good one.”
“Sorry, Steph, that’s rough,” Marin murmurs, and a second later, her phone pings in her pocket.
Reflexively, her whole body seizes. It’s the Shadow app. She stops cutting and checks her phone quickly with her free hand. It’s nothing. One of the investors in Portland is running late for a meeting. Sorry, Derek, be there in five minutes. As she’s holding the phone, her husband’s response comes in. No rush, George, we just sat down.
“So how’s Salty doing now?” Marin asks, resuming the cut. She swallows a sigh of relief. It’s crazy how stressful it is to spy on someone.
“Oh, he’s fine.” Her client didn’t even notice that Marin had paused for a few seconds. Stephanie’s face is buried in her own phone. “Back to being a feisty little shit. He’s one spoiled Chihuahua. He ran out the back door the other day and I thought I lost him. Probably a good thing we never had kids, you know?”
Stephanie freezes, looks up, meets Marin’s gaze in the mirror. “Oh my god, Mar, I can’t believe I said that. Me and my fucking mouth. That was so insensitive. I am so sorry. Oh my god.”
Marin doesn’t care. People have said worse to grieving mothers, and on purpose. This barely registered at all, but before she can reassure Stephanie that it’s fine, her phone pings one more time. It’s the Shadow app again. Maybe selecting “All” when she reinstalled it wasn’t the best idea.
The cut is finished, at least. It’s clear Stephanie feels terrible, and Marin seizes the opportunity to take advantage of the other woman’s blunder.
“No worries, Steph. Listen, do you mind if Jackie does your blow-dry? I need to leave a bit early. We have a new heat protectant crème I think you’ll love—it’ll make your hair so soft.”
“Of course,” her client says right away. Normally Stephanie—or any of Marin’s other VIP clients, for that matter—would never allow herself to be passed off to another stylist for the finish, but she’d stuck her foot in her mouth and was in no position to argue. “Go, do your thing.”
Marin motions Jackie over, then bends down and gives Stephanie a quick hug before the other stylist takes over. “I’ll see you in two months.”
“Sooner than that,” Stephanie calls out. “I’ll see you guys at the Spring Gala.”
Back in her office, she shuts the door and checks the Shadow app. This time, it is a text from McKenzie. No words, just a photo. The thumbnail is small, and without reading glasses Marin can’t make out what it is without enlarging it, but one thing is obvious.
If she’s texting him photos, then Derek and his mistress are still talking. It’s not over between them. Marin’s heart sinks.
How could she have been so stupid? How could she have trusted him? He’d whisked her away to the mountains, said he wanted a fresh start, but he obviously doesn’t mean any of it. Lies are like breathing for her husband. She saw a meme on Instagram once: How do you know a cheater is lying? He opens his mouth.
Leaning against the wall of her office, Marin taps on the thumbnail, and braces herself for the gut punch. The app is a bit slow, and it takes a few seconds for the picture to enlarge. When it does, it takes a moment for Marin to process what she’s looking at.
It’s a photo of Derek’s mistress, all right. But it’s not a selfie. She’s not nude. She’s not smiling. She’s lying on a bed, on her right side, on top of a flowered quilt, in a bedroom that looks dated and sparse. She’s dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, and her wrists are bound behind her back, her