Page 11 of Little Secrets
“I’m not sure where things stand with you two, but last we spoke, you didn’t mention anything about a separation—”
“We’re not separated.”
“Then I’m very sorry to tell you that your husband is having an affair.”
Marin blinks. She heard the words the PI said clearly, and she doesn’t need them repeated, though perhaps she needs Castro to communicate them a different way. They sit in silence for a few seconds. Marin feels like she’s waiting for a punchline that isn’t coming.
What the hell is the woman talking about,affair? That can’t be why she called Marin in. That isn’t why she was hired.
As if reading her mind, Castro types something onto her desktop, then turns the monitor in her direction so Marin can see. It’s a photo, full color, of Derek. He’s with another woman. The picture fills up the whole screen.
Marin stares at it, her mouth dropping open. Her brain seems to want to process everything she’s looking at separately; she can’t take it in all at once. Hair. Clothes. Face. Hands. Tree. Sidewalk. Boots. Smiles. Age. Ethnicity. The woman standing beside Derek looks a little like Olivia Munn, that actress who used to date that football player. But this woman is definitely younger—Marin doesn’t know how old she is, but mid-twenties would be her guess. A spark of familiarity hits her, something in the angle of her chin, the shape of her eyes. But then Marin blinks, and the sense of déjà vu is gone, and the woman is a stranger.
A stranger holding hands with her husband.
Castro clicks the mouse, and the photo changes to a different one, taken the same day, probably a minute or two later.
The stranger is now kissing her husband. Passionately. Outdoors. In broad daylight.
“These are from yesterday afternoon. In Portland.” The PI knows how to deliver bad news. Her voice is modulated; sympathetic but neutral. She could be an anchorwoman on a local news station, reading the teleprompter and telling viewers about something devastating that just happened somewhere in the world before throwing it back over to Chuck and Gary for the sports and weather. “A contact of mine sent them over. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”
Derek isn’t just away on business—he’s away on business with his… with his…mistress, is the first word that comes to mind.Girlfriend,lover,homewrecker, andwhorealso come to mind, but for some reason,mistressseems to fit. It’s more sordid, and more scandalous, which is what this feels like.
Well, what did you expect?a little voice in her head whispers, and she mentally swats at it, like it’s a buzzing mosquito. But it doesn’tleave; it keeps whispering, and the whispers are growing louder, and more persistent, and if she doesn’t calm down, she’s going to have a panic attack right here in the middle of the private investigator’s office.
Castro is watching her, her face full of concern. “Are you okay?”
Marin can’t seem to speak. All she can do is nod, close her eyes, and take several deep breaths through gritted teeth. She grips the padded arms of the chair with sweaty hands as the practical parts of her brain fight to take over. Logically she understands that she’s safe. Her heart isn’t physically splitting in two; the world isn’t literally ending; the walls of the room aren’t actually closing in. Castro is a former cop and most certainly knows CPR, if it comes to that. Marin is not going to die today, no matter what this feels like.
There’s a Xanax in her purse, but she’d be mortified to take it. She doesn’t want anyone to know she relies on prescription pills to keep herself from drowning. She takes another deep breath, and then another. After a moment, her heart rate slows, returning to normal. She opens her eyes. Her gaze focuses slowly on the PI’s face.
“That sonofabitch,” she finally manages to say. She reaches for the bottle of water. “He’s with her right now?”
“Actually, they’re not together at the moment.” Castro manages to sound both gentle and professional. “They spent yesterday together, and she took the train back from Portland alone early this morning. I checked her Instagram page, and it mentioned something about classes later today.”
Portland.Train.Instagram.Classes. It’s all too much. Marin closes her eyes again, as if shutting them will blot out the images Castro just showed her. It doesn’t work. They’re already seared into her mind. “She’s a teacher?”
“She’s a graduate student. Art school.”
Marin winces.
“I’m sorry.” Castro shakes her head. “I’m sure that doesn’t help.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-four.”
Twenty-four and an artist. Astudent, for Christ’s sake. Marin opens her eyes again. Her gaze meets the PI’s, who’s watching her with a look of utter compassion so genuine it almost makes her want to cry.
Another moment passes, and then Castro begins to describe how her discovery had come about. Per Marin’s instructions at their last meeting, she’s been looking into Derek’s employees, and two who work in his manufacturing facility in Portland were flagged. Castro engaged a contact in Oregon, a cop who moonlights as a PI on his days off, to do some digging. He learned that both employees have arrest records, and both were charged, though the charges were ultimately dismissed in both cases.
“What were they arrested for?” Marin asks, trying to focus on the investigative details and not the sight of another woman’s lips pressed against her husband’s.
“One was arrested for a bar fight,” Castro says. “The other was accused of assaulting her next-door neighbor.”
“Her?”
A hint of a smile passes over Castro’s lips. “Apparently they don’t get along. It started when one neighbor accused the other of stealing her ceramic garden gnomes.”
