Chapter 11
Eleven
Vicky
“what?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Callahan, but there’s nothing we can do.
It’s come from our Managing Partner, and I don’t have the reasons.
” The lawyer’s discomfort travels clearly over the line.
“There’s a clause in the retainer… written notice with or without cause…
I’ll send you an email for the paperwork. I just… wanted to let you know.”
I blink back tears of frustration. There’s no point arguing, I know there isn’t. We were due to meet HM I know he won’t. I don’t even want to try, in case I alert him that I’m investigating.
I can’t simply waltz into Northbridge and ask for access. Or subpoena him on the grounds that he looks like a jerk in his LinkedIn profile—not least because he doesn’t have one.
But I know where he might be Friday night. Even if he’s not there, others will be who know him. Hell, Amelia might even be there.
It’s like the universe wants me to go to this goddamn social event.
Alex will gloat. I know he will. He’ll say I’m only there because it stops him taking the seed money. He offered to pay me to go, I told him to get stuffed, and now I’m thinking of going. What does that make me?
Lucy’s paying me to go too—even if she doesn’t know it. Is that any different?
Never in my life have I equated ‘private investigator’ with ‘salacious woman for rent.’ Yet Alex manages to form that connection for me, without even trying.
Am I really thinking about walking back into Alex’s life, two and a half weeks after I walked out of it?
If I go, I get the chance to finish Lucy’s case in record time.
She’s offered a fixed fee in addition to hours spent, so I’ll get a decent payday, and potentially save her some money too.
I’ll get the answers to the questions, and maybe it’ll get Amelia help she desperately needs.
The specter of Alex hovering over my shoulder every time I look at my bank account will fade away, and though I’ll still pay it back, I’ll be able to do it when I’m ready. Buying time to build the business.
If I don’t go, I miss my chance to get into Northbridge.
Lucy’s case becomes that much harder to complete—if at all.
I could throw hours into it and get nowhere—or worse, not be able to throw hours into it because I have no leads, and nothing to explore.
The very reason every other PI turned it down.
And Alex will come knocking for his twenty grand, not least because he told me to be there and I wasn’t.
Told me to be there. There are undeniable similarities between Amelia’s position and mine. Both of us in relationships with controlling men. Except… I love Alex, I know who he is, and I accepted that part of him. Hell, I even like it—liked it. Damn, I need to get over myself.
But it’s only one night.
There’s always a chance Amelia feels the same about Lukas Van Wyk, but somehow, I doubt it.
That’s the plan, then. Do this gig, find more work, suck it up on the Friday social, get to the point when I can pay him back. Then I can finally be free of him.
As plans go, it’s a shitty one for too many reasons.
That afternoon, certain that Alex will be at work, I drive to his house in Westchester, letting myself in with my keys. The place is empty, just as I left it, and I’m in and out in ten minutes, two options for dresses in their garment bags, and shoe boxes in the back of my car.
Reconciled to the ball in two days.
Who even has a ball, anyway? What’s wrong with a normal party, a bit of mingling and avoiding the spiked punch?
Thursday and Friday I spend time digging into Amelia’s past from before she got married.
Historical Facebook account (now mostly dormant), her college yearbook and some old transcripts Lucy’s given me.
Five years old, and useful only to paint a picture of who she was before.
I look for ways to break open this damn case that don’t involve me walking back into Alex’s orbit, but I can’t find any.
Friday evening, I’m getting ready in the bathroom when Carol walks in from work.
She lingers in the doorway, watching me as I lean over the sink, careful not to let my dress touch, applying the final touches to my light makeup—a soft brown shadow to bring out the blue of my pale eyes.
“Nice dress. So you’re going then?”
“Yes, I’m going. It’s what Lucy’s paying me for, isn’t it?” I choose one of the two lipsticks I brought with me from Westchester: a pale rose.
“What about Ben and Jerry’s?”
“What about him?”
“Have you told him you’re going?”
“No. He’s invited me, and I’m not unblocking the son of a bitch.”
“And are you prepared to dance with him?”
I press my lips together, apply the lipstick, then blot once on a square of tissue to take the shine down. It gives me time to compose myself before I reply. “I’m there to work, not party.”
“You know he’ll expect you to dance with him.”
“There’ll be a lot of people there. I’ll probably dance with a few of them.” Won’t that be embarrassing.
If I can get away with it, I’ll dance with none of them and keep to the edges, asking careful questions. Alex can dance with whomever he wants.
“Well… you look stunning. I love those earrings.”
“Thank you,” I say flatly. They’re long diamond drops, the only pair I have that go with this ridiculous dress, but Alex gave them to me. Carol can have them after tonight.
“What time does it start?”
“Eight.”
“It’s already… uh…”
“I wasn’t planning on being on time.”
“And why would you be?” Carol says with a smirk. “They should all wait for you.”
Procrastination has been my mantra so far this evening, but there are no more reasons to delay. I retrieve my phone, order a yellow cab on the app, then slide it into the clutch that matches this dress. Needless to say, Alex bought that too.
Hell, everything I’m wearing Alex paid for, right down to my shoes. Doesn’t that set the theme for tonight.
I pick up my coat (Max Mara’s finest cashmere—Alex’s money), say goodbye to Carol, and head on outside as the cab arrives.
The journey takes forty-five minutes, far too long to sit and think about the stupidity I’m currently undertaking.
And it’ll be nine o’clock before I arrive.
Plus eighty-three dollars for this ride, making a sizeable dent in my paltry bank balance.
Same again for the return; I suppose I can expense it against the business.
“There you go,” the cabbie announces as he eases to the curb. He’s watching me in his rearview mirror. “Have a great night.”
“Thank you.” The alert comes up on my app, and I add a tip, trying not to grimace as my bank account plunges further, then open my door.
It’s freezing out in this dress, even with my coat, but only a few steps to the entry to the club.
There’s an imposing wrought-iron gate, with a burgundy awning on the sidewalk, giving access through one side. A uniformed man stands within.
Will he ask for an invitation? Maybe not telling Alex was a stupid mistake.
I brazen it out anyway, walking up to him. Surely my getup makes it clear I belong?
“Good evening, ma’am.” He lifts the clipboard he’s holding. “May I please have your name?”
I relax, letting out the breath I was holding. Of course Alex would’ve put me on the list. “Victoria Callahan.”
The man runs his finger down his page. Frowns. Repeats the exercise. Glances at me, and checks for a third time. “Ma’am, would you step in here please?” He gestures to the courtyard area behind the wrought iron, still open to the elements.
I walk in as bidden, standing there feeling like the world’s most conspicuous mistake, trying not to bite at my lip and smudge my makeup. It’s obvious what the problem is: Alex hasn’t put me on the list.
This is a complete waste of time and money. I’ve screwed Lucy’s case before I’ve even started, missed out on the chance to find Amelia or Lukas Van Wyk, and now Alex will think I didn’t come.
For a moment, I consider reaching for my phone. Calling him, letting him know I’m here.
But I can’t bear the thought he’s brought someone else. The disappointment in his tone while I beg to come in, wasting his time. So not happening.
The security guard has his finger to his ear, speaking into a mic on his wrist. “A Victoria Callahan. Yes. No, not on the list. Yes. Very well.”
He turns to me, and I brace my shoulders. “Wait here, please, Miss.”
A downgrade in both my title and his attitude. He’s between me and the exit. Not only can I not get in, now I can’t even leave.
Great. Not going to the ball and getting accused of gatecrashing.
Cinderella never had this problem.