“Max is a reporter?”
“Yes.”
“How did you meet?”
Caroline studied Zander for a moment. It didn't matter who Max was, or how they’d met, for the story she was telling Zander. It was interesting that he wanted to know. She had the impression that it had to do with more than just what she was telling him. “We met in second grade in public school. Stayed friends even after my father inherited the shipping company and became an overnight multimillionaire and was pressured to put me into private school. Max has kept me grounded all these years. It started with my stories about how incredibly crazy, vain, greedy, and out of touch with reality my new circle of friends were clear back when we were in seventh grade. I was the new girl in school, had no idea which fork to use at the fancy dinner parties, couldn’t have cared less about my wardrobe or going to their ridiculous, petty social events. But Max insisted I play the part and get as much dirt on these people as I could because the people I was in high school with would someday be CEOs of big companies and running for office. We joked that having documented secrets about them could pay off someday. It took me a while to realize that it wasn’t actually a joke. But when I figured it out, it was…really awesome.”
“What happened?” Zander asked.
He was listening and watching her intently.
“You really want to hear all of this?”
“I really do.” His reply was simple. And resolute.
“Okay. Our senior year, I was at a party and I overheard two of the rich kids trying to talk our star running back into throwing the homecoming football game so they could win some bet. He didn’t want to do it. He had a huge scholarship riding on his performance and a scout was going to be there. They told him if he didn’t do it, they would plant drugs in his locker and make sure the coach found them before the game. His entire season would be over and he’d never get to play in college. I was furious that they thought they could manipulate someone like that and not even give a shit about hurting him. It was all just a stupid game to them. I told Max about it and we decided I should dig back through everything I’d been documenting about everyone. Sure enough, six months before, I’d overheard someone else talking about how one of those guys had slept with the other one’s girlfriend. So, we told him if he didn’t leave the football player alone, we were going to tell his friend and everyone else.”
Zander’s scowl deepened. “You confronted this asshole?”
“Well, Max did. With an anonymous text. Then a message on Instagram. Then a letter to his house. Then a glitter bomb to school. Then a singing telegram to the country club. Just so he knew that we knew, for sure, who he was and to keep reminding him in the days leading up to the football game.”
Zander seemed unsure how to respond to that.
“Max was great at research even back then. We found him easily. These guys are always so full of themselves, they never worry about letting everyone know who and where they are, but it wouldn’t have mattered. We would have gotten him eventually.”
“Seems a singing telegram to the country club kind of spilled the whole story, didn’t it? Why would he leave the football player alone after his secret was out?” Zander asked.
“Oh, it didn’t tell the secret. It was just the chorus from that old song ‘Somebody’s Watching Me’.”
For just a flicker of a moment, Caroline thought Zander was going to smile. He didn’t. But the hint was there.
“So what happened?”
“The player had the game of his career, got the scholarship, was a huge star in college, even played in the NFL for a few seasons.”
Zander gave a single nod. “And the assholes?”
Caroline sighed. “They became the CEOs of their daddies’ big companies and one’s a state senator.”
“Damn,” he murmured, his eyes on hers.
“Yeah. But…” She shrugged. “I still go to parties where those guys show up and I have even more dirt on them now. If they ever become more than the average spoiled, rich pricks, I can give something to Max.”
“You think you’re keeping them all in line?”
“No. But I’m doing something. I stay close. I collect info. And I turn it over if it’s something that’s going to end up hurting someone. Or something.” She leaned in. “Like an animal. Or animals.”
“So you still do this. The spying thing.”
“I’m just accepting invitations to social engagements. It’s not my fault if people think the pretty interior designer is too dumb to understand what they’re talking about, or if they don’t notice that I’m standing there, or if they don’t lock their home office doors.”
“You sneak into their offices and look at private papers?”
“They invite me into their homes, and I might happen to walk through unlocked doors once in awhile. These houses are huge. I can’t be expected to remember where all the bathrooms and bedrooms are, Zander,” she said, with a little eyeroll.
He rolled his right back. “And they’ve never caught on? Even when people have gone to prison for things that had to have been traced back to paperwork from inside the company.”
“Exactly.” She gave him a little grin that she was sure seemed pleased with herself. Because she was. “The info had to come from inside the company, right? I’m not inside any of those companies. They’ve never suspected me. At all.” She sat back with a shrug. “It’s their own stupid egos that get them into trouble. Which is truly sweet justice. They think that everyone they socialize with somehow admires them or owes them or is intimidated by them and would never betray them. Or they think that a young woman would never have the brain or the balls to do it. Either way, they’re wrong. And it’s their downfall.”
“You let them think you’re dumb and docile,” Zander summarized.
She nodded.
“Doesn’t that get old?”
“Yep. About the time I showed up to a surprise birthday party and found a wedding dress and marriage license waiting.”
“Right.” He sat back in his chair. He was still watching her thoughtfully, his jaw tight and his eyes unreadable.
“I have two options now,” she said. “One, I burn this bridge entirely, move in with Max, and do something with my criminal justice and pre-law degrees. Or, two, I figure out a great story about why I ran out, I go home and make up with everyone, and get back to work.”
His scowl was back. “You have criminal justice and pre-law degrees?”
“Yes.”
“Thought you were an interior designer.”
“That’s what everyone thinks. And they’re happy to let me decorate their offices and homes.”
“Your dad’s friends give you jobs decorating their offices and houses?”
“Some of them are my mom’s friends.”
“If they’re paying you for this, why don’t you have any money?”
She smiled. “They don’t pay me. They’re…letting their friends’ silly daughter play around. It’s ‘for my portfolio’,” she said, using air quotes. “And everyone, my dad especially, considers it just a hobby.”