Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
When I wake Sunday, there’s a strong, solid body against mine and warm breath on my neck. I leap out of bed so fast, I almost pull a hamstring. Rufus raises his head off my pillow like I’ve disturbed his beauty rest.
“Dog. This is my bed.”
His head tilts at my words and he stretches, black-tipped tail slapping the bedding.
“Get off,” I order, pointing to the floor.
Immediately, he does exactly what I say, leaping lightly from the bed and coming to stand in front of me.
I straighten in surprise. “Um . . . good boy?”
This is where Lydia would probably tell me to give him a reward. I applaud myself for thinking of it and grab the last couple cheese treats from the counter. Guess I should walk him and see if her delivery arrived downstairs.
But first, I stumble over to my coffeemaker.
It was a long night. I must’ve fallen asleep eventually, but I laid awake until at least one a.m. brainstorming questions for my interview today, and listening to every sound the dog made, terrified he was going to sully my floor again.
I got up and walked him sometime around midnight, but all he did was lift his leg on a tree.
So while the coffee machine fills my mug, I feed him and pull on clothes.
Lydia gave me a tongue-lashing about taking him out—not that I needed it after that cleanup—and made me set alarms on my phone so it wouldn’t happen again.
The first one is set for seven a.m., and we’re outside before it goes off.
After Rufus has done what he needs to do (picking up solid poop, while still disgusting, beats wiping its liquid form off my floor), I head back inside to assemble an outfit and work on my hair.
“Mrs. R.” wants to meet at ten o’clock a.m. at the Fillmore Hotel in Cherry Creek.
Not exactly a casual venue, and I’m getting a clear sense the woman herself isn’t either.
Which shouldn’t make me uncomfortable. Except the Fillmore is exactly the sort of place Kyle and I used to land with his parents back in high school, sitting through hours-long dinners as they highlighted his flaws and demanded he shape himself to their expectations.
He’d started inviting me along hoping to get his parents to tone it down.
Unfortunately, that was not the effect. While the Doctors Forbes didn’t overtly object to my presence, they made very clear that I did not, nor would I ever, belong.
I select a wool cowl-neck dress because it’s still chilly out and decide to stick with the sleek ponytail I’ve been wearing most of the time since I relaxed my hair.
Once I’ve contoured and perfected a daytime cat eye, I shoot Rufus a glare and slip into a pair of Jessica Simpson pumps in lieu of my destroyed Louboutins.
He watches me without a sound until I grab my purse and notebook off the counter.
Then, heeding Lydia’s instructions, I use a couple of treats to lure him into the ugly crate next to my bed.
He issues one low groan and starts panting as I close him inside, but that’s all.
At least what’s left of my apartment will be safe while I’m gone.
On my way down to meet my Uber, my phone pings with a text.
Theo
I’ll be out of service at least a week starting tomorrow. You still have the number for my friend in Colorado Springs?
I’m not calling the dude with the skull tattoos.
Theo
Dwayne’s a good guy. He would help, no questions, if you needed anything.
How was Mom?
Theo
Annoyed she hasn’t seen you for a month.
On my to-do list. Right below fifty other things.
Theo
Think I’d rather track down terrorists than ask about that.
How’s it going with our furry friend?
I pause a moment, briefly considering inundating him with poop emojis and pictures of my desecrated couch. But I don’t want to stress him out or give him more to worry about if he’s getting ready for a mission.
Lydia has been super helpful.
I’m down a pair of shoes, but he seems to be settling in.
The lobby of the Fillmore Hotel in Denver’s Cherry Creek North neighborhood is one of those spaces that clearly had considerable styling put into it, and the result feels effortlessly elegant.
There’s no flashy branding or over-the-top decadence.
The colors are muted, the woods and fabrics of the furniture are high quality, and the spaces are illuminated without the lighting itself being a feature.
The overall effect is understated luxury.
As soon as you walk in, you can tell you’re in a place for people who have money, who don’t need to wave it around just to let everyone know.
“Hi,” I say to a prim middle-aged woman behind the front desk. “I’m Caprice Phipps. I’m here for a meeting with um . . . someone in room 211.”
She does a five-second assessment of me as she glances up.
I know she can’t possibly read the labels of anything I’m wearing or guess the balance of my bank account, but that doesn’t stop my palms from sweating like she’s a bouncer who might deny me access to an exclusive club.
My skin prickles when I look around and find I’m the brownest person in this lobby.
“Ah, yes,” she says. If there’s any layer of judgment, she hides it well. “We were told to expect you, Ms. Phipps. If you’ll follow me . . .”
She glides from behind the desk, clicking across the hardwood in a gorgeous pair of Manolos without looking back. So I click along after her in my Jessicas. It’s a quick elevator ride to the second floor, and before I know it, she knocks once on a door halfway down a wide hall.
We are greeted almost immediately by a middle-aged blonde woman with a wide smile. She passes a cash tip to the concierge with such subtlety I almost miss it. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Phipps. Please, come in.”
The woman doesn’t extend her hand, so I don’t either, waiting to speak until the door clicks shut behind me. “Mrs. R., I—”
“I’m in here,” a voice says from an adjacent room.
I follow the blonde through a doorway into a brightly lit sitting area decorated in the same tasteful aesthetic as downstairs.
A different woman rises as we walk in—slightly older, with brunette hair styled in such perfect loose waves around her shoulders I wonder briefly if it’s a wig.
She wears a blouse and stylish white pants, her head topped with a striking cowgirl hat that could only be pulled off by a wealthy white woman of a certain age. Whom she clearly is.
“Uh, Mrs. R?” I ask just to be sure, taking her extended hand.
“Yes, that’d be me,” she says with a sharkish smile—one that strikes me as vaguely familiar. She gestures to the well-dressed blonde. “This is my assistant, Beth.”
“Nice to meet you.” I nod.
Mrs. R. offers me a seat, and Beth pours tea for both of us.
“You’re younger than I expected. But I’ve read every one of your Unmatched articles, and I’m thrilled we get to sit down and chat.”
“It’s my pleasure. And thank you.” I take my phone and a small notebook out of my purse, trying to think where to start. “Unmatched was sort of a passion project for me.”
“Oh? Do you have firsthand experience?” Mrs. R. asks point-blank, jingling a set of gold bangles on one wrist. I don’t even blink. I’ve been asked this before.
“Ah, no . . . I’m not in a relationship. But I found a good friend’s husband on the app.”
She tuts in a way that makes me think she’s been there and done that.
“So,” I go on, opening my notebook. “I’m curious. When we spoke, you said your husband was on Unmatched too. I’m sorry to hear that. But what made you reach out to me?”
Revenge, most likely. But I want to hear it in her own words.
“My husband is a philanderer and always has been.” She waves her hand dismissively, but I don’t miss the pain in her eyes. “I figured that out within our first year of marriage, which was . . . not recent.”
Her eyes hold mine. Perhaps waiting for me to balk or question her choices. But I’ve done this enough and have met plenty of women in her situation who made the same decision. I nod for her to continue.
“It’s one thing to make that choice within a marriage. To be that sort of husband.” She rolls her eyes. “I guess I took issue when I realized he was advertising it to others—enticing, giving permission, capitalizing on it.”
I pause, trying to make sure I’m getting her subtext.
“Are you saying your husband is—”
“He founded Unmatched.” Her lip curls. “It’s his baby.”
I straighten in my chair, letting this information sink in.
I’d been prepared for this woman to be a wronged socialite at the very least. She and her husband are clearly wealthy and probably influential.
I don’t even know who they are yet, but ever since I walked through the doors of the Fillmore, I’ve been sure whatever she wanted me to know would at least make local waves.
Over months of research, I found plenty of users and victims, but I’d gotten nowhere trying to figure out who had cultivated the Unmatched app.
On record, it’s owned by some alphabet soup shell company.
But I knew there had to be someone, or even several someones, at the heart of its existence.
Some man who sat down one day and said, You know what would make a great business idea?
An app that helps married guys get more tail.
“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” I ask, reaching for my phone.
She places her hand over mine. A variety of jewels glitter across her fingers. “Before we go any further, I want to ensure you know what you’re getting yourself into.”
I meet her gaze, pretty sure I know what she means. An assortment of hard-to-forget emails and social media messages floats through my mind. Racial slurs. Dick pics. Threats. The ones that say I’m an ugly bitch and they hope I die. And a few that are even worse.
“Thank you for asking,” I say, swallowing hard.
This is my opportunity to back out. Run for the hills—or at least down to Starbucks to ask about benefits.
But then I imagine moving back to that garden apartment with the mice.
Losing my beautiful, expensive view. And I think of the lady journalists who came before me who didn’t back down just because they were scared.
And then, of all things, I remember something Kyle said after I published one of my very first features—a piece about abuse claims at a juvenile detention facility.
Some people can’t tell their own stories—they need you to write them.
I take a shaky breath. “There are certain risks that come with this job. But I take them because it’s important.”
She appraises me for an interminable minute, then gives me a sober nod. “And I’m sure you’re aware of the risks in exposing . . . well, certain members of society.”
My focus lasers in on her. I don’t really follow local gossip, but she has seemed familiar since I walked in. And suddenly I care less about a handful of cowardly online threats than I do about the truth.
“Let’s do this, ‘Mrs. R.’”
“Very well.” She gestures at my phone. “Record anything you like.”
I pull up the voice-activated software I use for this type of interview, then ask her to state the date and her full name.
“It’s Sunday, March fourteenth. My first name is Margaret, but I go by Mimi. My husband is Colin Vanderpool.”