Chapter 8
Eight
Vicky
Carol works from home on Tuesday, relegating me to my bedroom. I sit on my bed with my back against the wall, my laptop on my knees, and within two hours I’m aching everywhere.
But I have work. Projects. Money building up that will be paid (eventually).
My own fledgling business sprouting little feathered wings and taking its first cautious flight from the nest.
The lawyers at Heather, Mercer and Lowry are a delight to work with.
Responsive, polite, and unstinting in their admiration for my work ethos and speed of delivery, so far.
It gives me the encouragement to throw hours into it—that, and the only alternative is going for a run.
Not appealing when it’s raining heavily outside my window.
Early afternoon, Carol raps lightly on my door and opens it, poking her head around. “Ah, good. You’re not on a call or naked. Something’s come up. Coffee and a chat?”
“Sure.” I set my laptop down, amused at the chaos that is my roomie in certain moods. It feels good to stretch, and I press knuckles into my lower back as I pad barefoot into the kitchen.
The kettle’s already hissing quietly, and Carol’s pulling mugs out of the cupboard. The detritus of her last six cups waits by the sink; she clearly doesn’t believe in re-using the same one.
“What’s up?”
“Possibly a new client for you, if you’ve got the bandwidth?”
I hop up onto the counter, swinging my legs. “When you’re in my position, the answer’s absolutely yes, even if it means no weekends or sleep. I can’t afford to say no to anything.”
“Apparently a woman came into us two weeks ago, looking for a PI. Franklin turned her down, but I’ve just seen the notes on what she was asking for, and it’s got your name all over it.”
“How so?”
“Well, uh… I guess you’d call it a welfare check investigation.”
My excitement fades. “Carol… that’s not me. I do documented trails and interviews, not surveillance and subject monitoring.”
“I know that, but wait. First, she’ll pay a retainer, okay?”
“For domestic stuff? That’s unusual.”
Carol nods, eyes dancing with enthusiasm. “Second, it’s the client’s sister that’s the subject.”
I grimace, hissing in a breath. “A personal case. Those get really messy fast.”
“You haven’t heard third.”
“Go on, then,” I say, resigned.
“The sister’s married to a man who works at Northbridge Capital.”
“What?” I stare at her, while the tendrils of fate and destiny reach over my shoulder to try and ensnare me.
“Okay. Not my thing becomes really not my thing becomes hell no.” I shake my head with vigor.
“Really appreciate you thinking of me and getting the details, but I’m not touching this with a ten-foot pole. ”
“But it’s weeks of a gig! She’ll pay three hundred an hour!”
“Then she’ll have already found someone.”
Carol gives me a knowing smile. “No one will touch this because the woman’s not missing, or reporting abuse. There’s nothing to investigate.”
“And that’s supposed to persuade me how?”
“I spoke to her, Vicky. She hasn’t found anyone to take the case. When I mentioned you had an in to Northbridge—”
“You did what?”
Carol plows on like I haven’t spoken. “She wants to meet. She’s desperate.”
“And for good reason,” I say. “She sounds crazy. It’s probably voluntary estrangement, and the sister’s got her head screwed on right.”
“Just… hear what she has to say?” Carol glances at her watch. “She’ll be here in forty minutes.”
I narrow my eyes, trying to work out how to explain to the woman I’m dependent on that she’s totally crossed the line. So far past it the line isn’t even on the horizon. For good intent, yes, but… and with my interests at heart, but…
Damn it.
“Fine,” I say wearily. “I’ll put some shoes on. I’ll even listen, but I’m not making any promises.”
The woman who walks in half an hour later is a year or two younger than me, dressed smartly in a skirt suit suggesting she came straight from work. In the middle of the afternoon.
Carol makes us all drinks and we sit on the sofa and chairs in the living room. My laptop is on the coffee table, in easy reach.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she says, like she half expects us to tell her to leave before she’s even started.
Carol says nothing, leaving it to me.
“You’re welcome,” I reply, keeping it brisk and business-like. Our visitor brings enough emotion for all of us. “I’m Victoria; this is Carol.”
“Lucy Anderson,” she says. She doesn’t take her eyes off me, and they seem older than the rest of her. “I understand you may have a connection to Northbridge Capital.”
So she’s choosing to start there.
“Let’s get to that in time. Why don’t you tell us what the problem is.”
She holds her coffee between both hands, knees pressed together, back straight, and talks to the floor, her voice flat like she’s told the story more times than she cares to admit.
“I have a sister, Amelia. She’s a year older than me.
We’ve always been close. Three months ago, she married a man.
Lukas Van Wyk. Before then, we used to talk every day. Now… weeks go by.”
Her head comes up, gaze finding mine, eyes harder. “I’m not a fool. I know she’s married, I know she has a new life. It’s not that, okay?”
I raise a hand slowly in placation. “No judgements, I just want to hear.”
She looks down at her cup that she hasn’t even sipped from. “I’m sorry. It’s just… people don’t… listen.”
“I understand.” I try hard not to glance at Carol. I’m so not cut out for dealing with someone like this. She needs a therapist, not a private investigator. “Keep going, please.”
Lucy takes a breath before she continues. “When we do talk, she’s fine. You know how people say, ‘I’m fine’ when they mean anything but? She’s permanently… ‘fine.’” Her lips twist in bitterness. “I know my sister, okay? I know what she’s like, and she’s not like this.”
“Like what?” I ask gently.
Lucy stares at her coffee for several long seconds before she answers. “I think she’s afraid.”
“All right,” I say, careful to keep it neutral, accepting at face value. “Continue, please.”
My simple support seems to give Lucy strength.
Her shoulders loosen a little, her posture improves; she makes eye contact.
“I’ve met her for lunch a few times. She spends money like she doesn’t want it, taking me to the most expensive restaurants, ordering the priciest item on the menu even when I don’t think she’d like it.
She wears designer clothes and takes no interest in them.
She’s perfectly composed, perfectly cool, no warmth whatsoever. ”
I pick my laptop up, balancing it on my knees, and make some notes. I already have questions, but I don’t want to interrupt her flow.
Lucy pauses for a sip of her drink. “If I ask about her husband, she gives me platitudes. The only time there’s any emotion is when I inquire about his work.
Then she freezes up, and can’t change the subject fast enough.
” Her lips press thin. “I think she needs help, and I don’t know how to give it to her. ”
It seems Lucy’s finished her story, for she looks at me with such naked hope, yet there’s a tightness around her eyes as if she expects me to say no.
“What is it you’re asking me to do?”
“I don’t really know,” she says honestly. “I don’t know how this works.”
Fair. “Let me rephrase. When you think of your sister, what is it you want?”
“I want to know she’s safe. That she’s acting like that because… she wants to.” Her fingers tighten around her cup. “I don’t think she is.”
“Do you think this isn’t her choice? Do you believe her free will has been compromised?”
Lucy hesitates. “I’m not sure. I’ve tried to ask her, and she assures me she’s… fine.” The word carries her unqualified disdain.
“Why do you think she isn’t?”
The answer comes quickly. “Because that’s not her. The woman she is now… it’s not Amelia.”
“Can you be specific?”
“She never laughs. She rarely smiles. Amelia was full of life.” Lucy winces, as if hearing the past tense in her words. “What she’s become… it’s like all the color has been sucked away.”
“Thank you for being clear.” I type a note. “May I return to the subject of her husband?”
“Ask whatever you want.”
“Have you met him?”
“After the wedding, once. Not since then. They eloped, you see.”
I add another note. “What can you tell me about him?”
“He’s very senior, about forty. She’s much younger than he is. Rich, of course. Cruel.”
My eyebrows come up. “Cruel?”
Lucy gives a slight shake of her head. “I’m not sure why I said that. It’s just my impression and everyone always tells me to stick to the facts.”
“Well, I’d like to hear your impression, if you don’t mind.” I give her a brief smile. “Why do you think he’s cruel?”
“Something in his eyes, in the way his mouth curls. In the way he looks at Amelia. He… creeped me out.”
“Thank you.” I’m not sure whether to trust her instincts, or wonder if it’s envy or resentment. But I’m leaning toward the former. “What else can you tell me about him?”
“Not much. That was one time, weeks ago.”
“Do you know what his role is at Northbridge?”
“No. Amelia never talks about it. It’s like he’s never even there.”
“Does it bother you that you don’t know anything about him?”
Her head comes up quickly, her response vehement. “Hell yes.”
“And is that consistent with your sister’s prior relationships? For example, in the past, did she… share details?”
“All the time. We had no secrets.”
“Back to my earlier question, if I may. Regarding your sister’s husband, what is it you want me to do?”
Her mouth purses, like she’s listing things in her head she can’t say. It’s a moment before she speaks. “I would like to know who he is. If he’s safe for her.”
“I understand.” Another few keystrokes, the page on the screen before me half-full with questions. But I already know Lucy won’t have the answers to them. “Do you think he’s harmed her?”
“Physically, do you mean?”
That response is telling. “Yes, let’s start there.”
“I’m not certain, but I’d lean no.”
“And in other ways?”
“Psychologically?”
“If you like.”
Lucy’s gaze is steady as she meets my eyes. “I think he’s completely dominated her, crushed her, to the point where there’s almost nothing of her left.”
I nod, focusing on my screen to avoid showing encouragement. But my gut tells me Lucy’s read is spot on.
“From what you’ve told me,” I say carefully, “it seems you’re after someone to ascertain if your sister is acting of her own free will. To determine if she’s being coerced in any way.”
“Yes.”
“And to run a background check on her husband, to understand him better as a minimum.”
“Yes,” Lucy repeats, hope in that single word. “Can you do it?”
Can I? Possibly. Some of it. But not without getting close to Northbridge… and Alex.
Should I? No.
This isn’t my area, not one little bit. It wouldn’t be fair to me, or to Lucy. I’m not sure whose it would be. A therapist, certainly, but the help would be limited. A family lawyer, perhaps.
“I imagine you’ve had a difficult time finding a willing investigator,” I say instead, knowing that statement is reductionist at best.
Lucy scoffs. “I thought it would be easy when I started this. I figured I could pay someone to find out, but… well, you’re the first person to even help me understand what I’m asking for. Thank you for that, if nothing else.”
I take the opportunity she’s provided to close this down. “You’re very welcome, Lucy. I’m glad I was able to help. If you leave me your details, I’ll be in touch when I’ve had a chance to reflect.”
Her face falls. “Yes… yes, I understand.” She sets down her largely untouched coffee and reaches for her bag, rummages around, and pulls out a business card. “Here. My number… email…”
“Thank you.” I stand up as I take it, setting my laptop back on the table.
Lucy rises too, sensing the dismissal, picking her bag up, holding it close. “Well, you haven’t already said no, I suppose. So that’s a step forward.”
I was about to show her out, but I pause. “Do you understand why you’re being rejected?”
“Um… not really.”
My ‘esteemed’ peers. Most of them probably men, seeing only a distraught woman and thinking only in terms of reputational risk. They haven’t even been open. It makes me angry enough to take it on for that reason alone.
But I can’t. Just because those PIs are callous doesn’t mean they’re wrong.
“Private investigation work typically focuses on key areas,” I explain. “Disappearances, fraud, evidence of coercion, legal violations. What you’ve described doesn’t meet any of those criteria.”
“But there’s something wrong,” Lucy insists.
And here, my colleagues would say that Lucy is subjective, that Amelia is an adult. If she doesn’t want contact, there’s nothing to investigate. I can easily hear Franklin’s voice in my head using just those words.
It stirs my irritation, my sense of right, but it doesn’t make it untrue. At least from a professional perspective.
“Let me give it some thought,” I hear myself say. It’s weak, a brushoff because I can’t bring myself to say no to her. Whether it will be any easier in the email I write her in a day or two remains to be seen.
“Thank you.” Lucy forces a smile, but I can see the expectation of rejection in her eyes. “Um… for what it’s worth, I do have money. My parents… our parents died. There’s an inheritance.”
Well, damn. That just twists the knife. I know what it’s like to bury parents too young.
“I understand. Thank you for being so open today.” I lead the way to the front door and Lucy follows me, dejected. She gives me a nod, then walks out, making an effort to lift her head up.
I give her a moment to walk down the hallway before I quietly close the door.
Every fiber of my being wants me to take this damn case, because it’s the right thing to do.
But it’s not my skillset, not the work I’m trained for, and not even the remit of a PI. I wouldn’t know where to begin. And I’d probably fail.
I turn to meet Carol’s gaze, press my lips together, and shake my head, slow and final.