Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
She doesn’t know me anymore, though, so she doesn’t appreciate the peril she’s in. A tear slips down her cheek, and she dashes it away. “My mom showed me a picture of you hugging another woman outside of her hotel room. And I saw the report from the investigator she hired. He had receipts and copies of text messages and emails between you and that woman.”
“What?” I whisper, feeling my blood pressure climbing.
“My mom hired an investigator,” she blabs, but I can only focus on one word.
Mom.
Her mom.
The woman who couldn’t stand me and thought I was a distraction to her daughter.
“You were followed. Your phone was hacked, and there were messages and emails. I saw the printouts. There was a huge report. And like I said… I saw a photo of you hugging a woman outside—”
“Where is it?” I interrupt.
“What?”
My words come out harsh and clipped. “Where is the photo? The report? I know damn well you probably saved it all. After all, you put a lot of damn stock in something I was never shown so I could defend myself.”
Joslyn opens her mouth, perhaps to deny, then snaps it shut just as fast. She pivots and stalks stiffly off the patio without a word. I follow behind her.
She leads me into the house, through the great room, and then to her study. It’s the only room in her house I found to be messy and lived in. Scattered sheets of paper are all over her desk with song lyrics scribbled out in messy handwriting. Shelves stocked full of books—fiction and non-fiction alike. A stack of unread magazines on the floor. A heap of unread mail on the credenza behind her desk. A recipe book on the windowsill with yellow post-it notes flagging certain pages of interest.
Yeah… she spends a lot of time in here.
Joslyn sets her wine down on her desk before moving to a set of built-ins. She pulls open a drawer that holds hanging files, then rifles through to one near the back. With an audible sigh, she pulls it free, turning to face me.
Slowly stretching an arm out, she hands me the file. I set my beer down, then take the folder from her.
It’s blue with an expanding, reinforced spine, yet the contents inside are so thin they’d have fit in an envelope. I glance up to see Joslyn watching me with her arms crossed protectively around her midsection.
I open the file, letting my eyes fall to the documentation that caused this woman to drop me like a hot potato without an explanation.
On the top is a printed four-by-six photo, clearly taken at a distance as evidenced by the grainy resolution. But there I am, facing the camera and hugging a redhead in front of a hotel door. I instantly know who it is.
“That’s Rachel,” I say as I hold the photo out so it faces Joslyn. She jolts, her eyes widening with surprise. Leaning in, she stares hard at the picture. In disbelief, she murmurs, “No.”
“Yes,” I reply firmly. I easily recall back to twelve years ago when Joslyn and I were together. Jerico had just started up The Jameson Group. Rachel and I were just friends, and she had come to Vegas for a visit. I picked her up, and I took her to lunch.
We most certainly didn’t fuck.
I toss the photo on Joslyn’s desk and go through the folder in my hand. There’s a document entitled Investigative Report by some hack detective agency—if the crummy quality of the letterhead is any indication. I skim the contents, note it’s nothing more than typed entries by someone—dated and time stamped—indicating places I’d been with the pictured “woman,” including times at my apartment as well as a hotel over a four-day period. Behind that, there’s a list—again, just typed by this “investigator”—of made-up text messages and emails.
All lies.
I drop the folder on her desk with disgust. “I can’t believe you fucking fell for that.”
“Excuse me?” she replies defensively, her arms uncrossing and her hands going to her hips.
“That’s all bullshit.” I point to the folder. “Except the photo. That’s legit. Rachel came to town and visited. We had lunch. We were going to go rock climbing one day, but I couldn’t break away from work. Then she left. She wasn’t working at Jameson then.”
“I—I—” Joslyn stammers, but then grits her teeth. “The text messages and emails.”
“Fake,” I reply blandly.
“No.” She shakes her head in adamant denial.
“You were fucking gamed, Joslyn. By your own goddamn mother.”
“She wouldn’t—”
“She fucking did,” I snarl. But then I lose my shit, twelve years of hurt and frustration bubbling over. “And you were stupid enough to fucking fall for it. Christ, how could you have been so sodden stupid? How could you have just accepted that bloody crock of shit and not trusted in me, huh?”