Kendra’s office was small, windowless, and all business: two cheap chairs, a battered desk, and a good laptop. She was a fit woman with short hair and sharp eyes, holding a black folder.
She got straight to the point. I laid out everything I had learned so far—the condoms, the lipstick, the address in the gated neighborhood, the shopping center, the café, the name Preston.
Kendra took notes quickly and asked practical questions: car make, color, timing, clothing, routines. “How much?” I asked finally.
“Three thousand dollars,” she said plainly. “Half up front, half on delivery if I get what you need.” She estimated a few days for the work.
I opened my purse and took out fifteen hundred dollars in cash. It came from the emergency envelope I kept tucked in my dresser drawer—my mother’s habit, passed down to me. Always have something set aside for a hard day.
“This enough to start?” I asked. “Yes,” she said, taking the money and locking it away. “And frankly, a doctor’s wife will be easier to track than most people. Wealthy people leave a trail.”
She told me there were three Dr. Prestons in the county who fit the initials she’d already found—one pediatrician, one pathologist, and one well-known plastic surgeon. “My money’s on the plastic surgeon,” she said dryly.
She promised to confirm the husband’s identity, clinic, home address, and schedule. Then she asked, “What exactly do you plan to do with the information?”
I knew the answer, but I wasn’t ready to say it aloud. “I want the truth first,” I said. “Then I’ll decide.”
Kendra nodded. “We’ll document meetings, movements, and communications where possible,” she said. “No illegal hacking. But people are careless, especially when they think they’re clever.”
“Are you sure you want to take this all the way?” she asked. “I’m sure I want facts,” I said. “What I do with them comes after.”
On the way home, I stopped at a copy shop that stayed open late and asked about large-format printing on glossy stock. I didn’t print anything yet. I just learned the prices and hours.
I wanted to come back later, after dark, when no one I knew might see me. Then I hid the new phone in a zippered pocket inside my purse and left my regular cell phone out in plain sight at home.
Let Ken see what he expected to see. Let him feel safe. That evening he came home earlier than usual, jangling his keys and in suspiciously good spirits.
He announced that his meeting had been canceled because the chairman had come down with a terrible stomach bug. He chuckled at that in a way I filed away for later.
“Ellie, let me take you out tonight,” he said suddenly. “There’s that Italian place downtown on Main. They do a great pasta.” “Why not?” I said with a small smile. “We’re not getting any younger.”
He was delighted by how easily I agreed. He opened the car door for me like a gentleman and drove us into town.
The restaurant was crowded and softly lit, with live music in the corner. The waiter recognized Ken immediately and asked if we’d like the same wine “Mr. Morrison usually orders.”
The pasta really was excellent. I even let myself have a full glass of dry red wine. Across the table we talked about garbage pickup, the weather forecast, and whether Doris’s cherry tree would produce this year.
All the while, another conversation ran beneath the surface without a word being spoken. That night Ken slept deeply, snoring in the same steady rhythm he had for forty years.
I lay awake with my eyes open, counting what had been done and what still remained. In the morning he tossed off his usual line again: “Don’t wait dinner on me.”
After he left, the house felt hollow and loud with silence. I went into the kitchen, switched on the kettle, and felt Biscuit rub against my ankles.
That was when the hidden phone in my purse vibrated. A text from Kendra lit up the little screen: “Your packet is ready. You can pick it up.”
I sat down hard on the stool and wrapped both hands around an empty mug just for something to hold. Inside me, everything went very still.
No more suspicions. No more guesswork. Soon I would have dates, photos, records—facts. I threw a shawl over my shoulders, grabbed my bag, and headed out.
As I left, the old house gave a quiet creak from somewhere deep in the floorboards. It sounded like a clock just before the strike.
Kendra met me in her office without much preamble. A thick folder sat on her desk, along with a sealed envelope with my name printed neatly on the front: ELEANOR MORRISON — PERSONAL.
“Everything you asked for is in here,” she said, sliding it toward me. She motioned for me to sit. I did, folding my damp hands in my lap so she wouldn’t see them shake….
