What’s crazy is that the sex with the other woman wasn’t what was making me mad. It was the money. The expensive dinner had been a hint. What else had there been? Hotel rooms. Roses? Gifts? Was he paying her rent, while we still had Jacob’s future college bills hanging over our heads?
It was a stupid thing to care about, but that’s what I had been obsessing about. How much had he spent on her? How much had she been worth to him?
“Good morning.”
I turned from my spot at the kitchen window to see Jacob rounding the bottom of the stairs, his school uniform on, his hair still messy from sleep. He needed a haircut. His dark locks now curled along his purple collar, and I was pretty sure the shaggy style was an intentional move to piss off his father. I could get on board with that. I set my coffee on the counter. “Hungry?”
“I’ll get some cereal.” He opened the pantry door and reached for a box of Froot Loops. “There’s some light that came on in my car. The uh . . . the engine light.”
“You tell your dad?” I pulled a bowl from the cabinet and set it at the bar, then retrieved a spoon for him.
“Not yet. He’ll probably tell me it’s the oil change thing I was supposed to do last week.”
I took a seat at the stool next to him and watched as he shook out the brightly colored rings. “He’s probably right.”
“I heard Nora Price died.”
“Yep.”
“I wish you still did the famous people.”
“Yeah.” I picked up the coffee cup and warmed my hands on the smooth ceramic. “Me too.”
“Remember when you did Robin Williams?” He perked up. “Or Michael Jackson? And you took me with you to Neverland Ranch?”
Yeah, probably not my finest parenting moment. I was saved from a response by my phone, which dinged with an email notification. Opening it, I swiped past the new message, which was a junk email about bedding. Scrolling down, I saw an email from Fran at 6:45 a.m. At first glance, the time would have been worrisome, except that my editor was from New York and liked to remind everyone of that fact with annoying habits like sticking to an East Coast work schedule, even though she’d been in Los Angeles for almost a decade.
The email was short and to the point (another New York holdover).
Reminder: Employee review today at 10am.
Shit. I glanced at the clock. No time for a shower. I carried my coffee to the sink and poured it out.
“So why did you stop with the celebrities?”
I turned on the hot water and made a face he couldn’t see. We had shielded him from the mess last year, avoiding any mention or discussion of the Axe twins in his presence. He hadn’t seemed to notice I’d stopped doing celebrity obits, his attention glued to video games, card games, and wiping his browser search history. I glanced at him, surprised to have his full focus, an honor I hadn’t received in years. “Ummm . . . one of my interviews went poorly. It was supposedly a suicide, but there were too many clues pointing against that. I thought the woman’s twin sister was in jeopardy, tried to warn her.”
“Wait, you’re talking about the coffee twins? The hot ones?”
I rinsed out the orange mug. “Yeah, I’m surprised you know who they are.”
“The dead one was in Maxim. Trent has a poster of her up in his game room.”
Of course he does.
“So you went, like, superspy on them? Damn, Mom. That’s cool.”
Oh yes, very cool. It was so cool when I had sneaked past Brexley Axe’s security and interrupted her dinner party to warn her about the possible threat and show her my research. It was so cool when she had swung a bottle of wine at my head and screamed for someone to help. It was so cool when I tried to run and was tackled by a three-hundred-pound bodyguard and hog-tied with handcuffs. If I’d gotten any cooler, I’d be in prison right now.
I set the cup upside down on the drying rack. “I’ve got to run upstairs and change. Have a good day at school.”
He leaned in as I kissed him on the top of the head, his spoon rising to his mouth, attention back on his phone, the hot twins already forgotten.
“Love you,” I called as I left the kitchen and started up the stairs.
He grunted through a mouthful of cereal in response.
CHAPTER 16
LILLIAN
While waiting outside Fran’s office, my ankles crossed and tucked under the stiff chair like a kid outside the principal’s, I read the news on my phone. There was an article about a lawsuit the Marina del Rey boat owners were filing, and I fished David’s card out of my purse to forward him the article. He had mentioned keeping a boat in their slips just outside the coffee shop.
I started to write the email, then realized my mistake. I couldn’t send him something as Lillian Smith. Not when I had introduced myself as Taylor. I swapped methods and picked up the card, looking for his cell number. There was only a WhatsApp number, and I recalled him tapping it as he handed it over and asking me if I’d used the messaging app. As Taylor, I had laughed, because of course I had. And honestly, I did use WhatsApp, with Mike, who had always been paranoid that Apple was somehow reading (and cared about) our text messages.
I opened the app, checked to make sure my username on it was still just my phone number (no Lillian reveal there), and started a thread to him. I pasted the link, then composed an accompanying message that was as unflirty as possible.
Thought you’d find this interesting, though you probably already know all about it. - Taylor (from the coffee shop)
Before sending, I read it twice, testing the tone in my mind. It was good. Not suggestive or flirty. Appropriate for a married mother. Though . . . would Taylor send something different?
Yes, of course she would. Taylor would send a flirty pic, probably one from an exotic vacation, along with a fun message, not a boring article. I opened my camera roll and scrolled through the albums. Thanks to Mike’s fear of flying, most of our vacations were in dull locales like Bryce Canyon or the Sequoia National Forest. I opened our Lake Tahoe album and found a photo of me floating in an inner tube. It was by a spit of island, and the waters around me looked straight out of a Caribbean brochure. In it, I was wearing a red one-piece and white sunglasses and was laughing at something that Mike had said, right before he snapped the picture. I copied it and attached it to a new text to David.
You taking your boat out soon? I’m floating here—no, that was stupid.
Just wanted to say hi. Also dumb.
Hey coffee twin. How’s Fresno?
Not bad. We had laughed at our identical coffee orders (pumpkin spice with almond milk), so he would be reminded of who I was, and the picture would help. He lived in Fresno but spent half his time in LA, one of the few items he’d shared while he was busy asking questions about my fascinating life. I—
“Lillian?”
I looked up to see Fran standing beside me, one freckled hand on her hip, today’s outfit a brilliantly loud orange pantsuit set off by blue Birkenstocks and a yellow scrunchie that did a poor job of containing her auburn pin-screw curls. “Hey, Fran.”
“Come on in.” She held open the door, and by her brisk tone and pursed lips, I could sense how this was going to go.
I hesitated, then stepped into her office. She closed the door behind me, and the click of the lock was as sharp as a guillotine blade, snapping into place.