furrowed. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. I should have specified that in my email.”
“It’s okay,” Marin says. It’s really not, but at the moment she can’t bring herself to process anything other than relief. “So, what is it, then?”
“It…” Castro hesitates again, and though Marin is no longer worried, she can’t imagine what’s causing the PI such discomfort. The woman’s an ex-homicide cop, for Christ’s sake. “It appears your husband is seeing someone.”
Huh? Marin takes another sip of water, staring at the other woman, not fully comprehending. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure where things stand with you two, but last we spoke, you didn’t mention anything about a separation—”
“We’re not separated.”
“Then I’m very sorry to tell you that your husband is having an affair.”
Marin blinks. She heard the words the PI said clearly, and she doesn’t need them repeated, though perhaps she needs Castro to communicate them a different way. They sit in silence for a few seconds. Marin feels like she’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming.
What the hell is the woman talking about, affair? That can’t be why she called Marin in. That isn’t why she was hired.
As if reading her mind, Castro types something onto her desktop, then turns the monitor in her direction so Marin can see. It’s a photo, full color, of Derek. He’s with another woman. The picture fills up the whole screen.
Marin stares at it, her mouth dropping open. Her brain seems to want to process everything she’s looking at separately; she can’t take it in all at once. Hair. Clothes. Face. Hands. Tree. Sidewalk. Boots. Smiles. Age. Ethnicity. The woman standing beside Derek looks a little like Olivia Munn, that actress who used to date that football player. But this woman is definitely younger—Marin doesn’t know how old she is, but mid-twenties would be her guess. A spark of familiarity hits her, something in the angle of her chin, the shape of her eyes. But then Marin blinks, and the sense of déjà vu is gone, and the woman is a stranger.
A stranger holding hands with her husband.
Castro clicks the mouse, and the photo changes to a different one, taken the same day, probably a minute or two later.
The stranger is now kissing her husband. Passionately. Outdoors. In broad daylight.
“These are from yesterday afternoon. In Portland.” The PI knows how to deliver bad news. Her voice is modulated; sympathetic but neutral. She could be an anchorwoman on a local news station, reading the teleprompter and telling viewers about something devastating that just happened somewhere in the world before throwing it back over to Chuck and Gary for the sports and weather. “A contact of mine sent them over. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
Derek isn’t just away on business—he’s away on business with his … with his … mistress, is the first word that comes to mind. Girlfriend, lover, homewrecker, and whore also come to mind, but for some reason, mistress seems to fit. It’s more sordid, and more scandalous, which is what this feels like.
Well, what did you expect? a little voice in her head whispers, and she mentally swats at it, like it’s a buzzing mosquito. But it doesn’t leave; it keeps whispering, and the whispers are growing louder, and more persistent, and if she doesn’t calm down, she’s going to have a panic attack right here in the middle of the private investigator’s office.
Castro is watching her, her face full of concern. “Are you okay?”
Marin can’t seem to speak. All she can do is nod, close her eyes, and take several deep breaths through gritted teeth. She grips the padded arms of the chair with sweaty hands as the practical parts of her brain fight to take over. Logically she understands that she’s safe. Her heart isn’t physically splitting in two; the world isn’t literally ending; the walls of the room aren’t actually closing in. Castro is a former cop and most certainly knows CPR, if it comes to that. Marin is not going to die today, no matter what this feels like.
There’s a Xanax in her purse, but she’d be mortified to take it. She doesn’t want anyone to know she relies on prescription pills to keep herself from drowning. She takes another deep breath, and then another. After a moment, her heart rate slows, returning to normal. She opens her eyes. Her gaze focuses slowly on the PI’s face.
“That sonofabitch,” she finally manages to say. She reaches for the bottle of