Chapter 11 #2
“When the cost-benefit analysis shows you’re investing more than you’re earning—emotionally or financially.
Relationships should enhance your life, not drain your bank account or your will to live.
If you’re doing more emotional labor than a therapist and getting paid less, it’s time to close that account. ”
For a moment, actual wisdom seems to peek through the gold-digging advice like sunlight through storm clouds, and I find myself wondering if there’s more to Matilda than her materialistic exterior suggests.
Maybe she’s been hurt, too, and this whole thing is just elaborate armor made of money and attitude.
Then someone asks, “How do I tell if my neighbor’s cat is plotting against me?” and we’re right back to Crazy Town, population: everyone in this room.
Wait. Sherlock lifts his head. Did that person just complain about cats in a room where someone’s cat has mysteriously disappeared?
That’s either the world’s worst timing or someone is fishing for information, Fish replies grimly.
Matilda handles the question with her usual aplomb, treating it as seriously as she did the marriage advice, but I notice her smile becomes slightly strained when the word cat comes up—like someone just stepped on her emotional landmine.
If something happened to Fish, I’d probably lose my mind, and there would be no way I could host anyone or dispense any kind of relationship advice.
Hey? Maybe that’s why everything coming from her lips seems to be financially minded and terribly off topic. But then again, she is the millionaire, not me. So, there’s that.
“Cats are naturally mysterious creatures,” she says carefully. “If you suspect plotting, perhaps it’s time to reassess your relationship with said feline. Sometimes the best solution is simply... distance.”
That was weird, Fudge muses. Even for a hooman giving relationship advice about cats. And that’s saying something, considering everything else that’s happened here.
And strangely enough, Sherlock gives a soft woof, Jellybean and Matilda have quite a bit of distance between them at the moment.
I sink a little in my seat because he has a good point.
“Now,” Matilda announces, glancing at what appears to be a diamond-encrusted watch, “let’s take a short break to allow you all to explore our home.
Please, wander freely through the downstairs, enjoy the refreshments, and don’t forget—Sleigh Bells & Wedding Bells will be available starting tomorrow! ”
She holds up the book again, and I swear the glitter on the cover sparkles under the ballroom’s chandelier lighting.
As the audience begins to disperse—some looking dazed like they’ve been hit by a relationship advice truck, others frantically scribbling notes like they’ve just attended the seminar that’s going to change their lives and possibly their credit scores—I notice Matilda stepping down from the stage and suddenly looking smaller somehow.
The confident persona seems to deflate slightly like a balloon losing air, and for just a moment, she looks like what she actually is—a worried woman whose beloved cat is missing and who might actually care about something that can’t be measured in dollars and cents.
Now’s your chance, Fish advises. She’s got her guard down and her wallet-based armor is showing cracks.
“Want some backup for whatever you’re planning?” Buffy asks quietly, appearing beside me with the kind of perfect timing that suggests investigative instincts run in our family like a genetic disorder.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say with an assured nod.
I like this sister, Sherlock announces approvingly. She pays attention and doesn’t seem completely insane.
I glance at Macy, who’s currently sticking a straw up her nostrils.
I sigh hard as I look around the ballroom, where people are wandering among the Christmas displays, sampling more artisanal cookies, and probably trying to process the fact that they just received relationship advice that makes reality TV look subtle.
Mom and Georgie are deep in conversation with some of the other attendees, no doubt comparing notes on Matilda’s more outrageous suggestions, while Macy has suddenly sauntered over to one of the many Christmas trees with the kind of intensity usually reserved for spotting the last designer bag during a half-off Christmas sale.
Matilda stands alone near the stage, her public mask finally slipping just enough to show the real worry underneath.
For the first time all day, she looks less like a relationship guru and more like someone who’s genuinely terrified about her missing cat and possibly regretting every decision that led her to this moment.
“Here’s our chance,” I say, adjusting Ella’s stroller and preparing for what could be the most important conversation of this entire investigation.
Sometimes the best time to crack someone’s carefully constructed facade is right after they’ve spent an hour telling a room full of strangers that love is just another business transaction with better lighting and higher profit margins.