The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (20 page)

Every time I tackled this aspect of my job, I marveled at how strange it was. The most intimate details of a person's life—the story of their relationship's demise—fitting neatly into eleven-pre-set data fields.

To my keyboard, these were just names, cities, and empty words. A series of letters and spaces that had no meaning. But in reality, these were people's lives. Their broken hearts. Their dashed dreams of happily ever afters. And now they were being effortlessly translated into tiny, byte-size pieces of information to be stored on a giant, lifeless machine, in a cold, dimly lit server room somewhere in the middle of a town with a name not even worth remembering. And with just the tap of a mouse, these stories of betrayal and heartbreak were forever immortalized as nothing more than a string of l's and 0's.

I admit, it wasn't the most uplifting experience in the world, but it had to be done. And I was grateful for the distraction.

Two hours and fifteen cheating spouses (and one faithful one) later, I had finally reached the last file in the stack. My legs were numb from sitting and my neck was sore from staring at the computer screen, but I pushed myself to keep going, stretching my head from side to side in an attempt to relieve some of the stiffness in my shoulders.

Just one more to go.

I took a deep breath, opened the final folder, and began typing.

Case Number:
2383
Subject Name:
Benjamin Connors

My fingers slowed significantly and eventually came to a stop just after the "s" in his last name. I stared at the open folder in front of me. All the information that leapt off the page and into my tired, bloodshot eyeballs was more familiar than I ever would have imagined. Because for the first time in over a year, the record I was about to create and store away in the depths of cyberspace for all eternity was my own.

The notes were written from
my
point of view. The details were part of
my
memories.
My
past.

Benjamin Connors's path had irrevocably intersected with mine. And that one night, that one seemingly accidental meeting, had left a permanent mark on both our lives.

But for Benjamin Connors, the meaning of this file, this record of data, seemed conclusive. As with everyone else in the stack, it represented the end of his marriage. The loss of a wife and a child and a future he'd once envisioned for himself.

Whereas I, on the other hand, still hadn't figured out the significance of this file for me. For my envisioned future.

Because for the past two weeks, my mind had been clinging desperately to the memory of Darcie Connors standing in the doorway of this very room, expressing her undying gratitude to me. For what
I
did. What
I
was able to give her. That gratitude had invoked some kind of sensation in me that I hadn't been able to shake. A rare sense of fulfillment. As if someone had reawakened a side of me that I didn't even know was sleeping.

And it had been so long since I had experienced that feeling. Since I had
personally
been the one to expose a cheater.

As I stared at her name on the page in front of me, once again tasting that glorious flavor of purpose, I instantly understood that
this
is what I had been craving for the last year. This is what I had been trying so hard to replace. First in forming the agency and later in agreeing to be an expert witness. I needed to feel that I was actively making a difference in people's lives. That I was still using my superpower for good. But unfortunately, my paltry substitutes weren't enough. They didn't do the trick.

I felt like a recovering drug addict who had no idea what substance I was addicted to until someone accidentally injected it into my arm.

But now that I had identified what was missing in my life, I didn't know how I was going to be able to continue to resist it. Especially when I knew
exactly
how and where to get it.

Especially . . . when it had just left my office less than three hours ago.

"No!" I said aloud as I forced the thought from my mind and focused on finishing the task at hand. Data entry. Dull, stupid, tedious data.

I glanced again at the open folder on my desk. I had to think of it as just another file. Just another record. Nothing more.

And I knew that if I ever had the chance to put this whole thing behind me for good, it was now. Because once that data was entered, once that "Submit" button was clicked, I never had to see it again. The original file goes into the shredder and the original memory hopefully goes into some type of mental shredder as well.

With shaking hands, I carefully copied the text word for word from the file onto my screen. I didn't change one detail. Not one word, name, or even comma. Although the file clearly wasn't an accurate representation of what happened that night, it was the only representation that I wanted to be permanently stored.

Occupation:
Advertising
Location:
Sherman Oaks, CA
Client Name:
Darcie Connors
Relationship to Subject:
Wife

Primary Concern Warranting Inspection:
Client fears unfaithful tendencies in subject after subject was witnessed acting inappropriately at neighborhood party. Client wants to confirm or deny suspicions before moving forward with present plans to adopt a baby.

Associate Assigned to Case:
Shawna Miller

Inspection Location(s):
Palazzo Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, NV

Result:
Failed

Notes:
Associate met subject at a craps table in Palazzo Casino and allowed subject to supply instructions on proper play. Following the game, subject invited associate to have drinks and subsequently to join him in his hotel room. Once inside, subject proved intention to engage in sexual activities.

Enter. Close program. Done.

I stood by and watched ceremoniously as the electric shredder next to my desk hungrily ingested the file, the blades slicing its pages into minuscule, incomprehensible pieces that not even the most accomplished member of the CIA could possibly make sense of.

The shreds of paper floated gracefully into the clear plastic canister below, like white glitter in a snow globe.

There was something very conclusive about the whole process. Finite. And I prayed that I could now put the whole thing behind me. That somewhere in the midst of that shredded confusion lay all the ambiguous feelings I associated with the name Benjamin Connors.

But when I got back from lunch and sat behind my desk, determined to start preparing next week's assignments for my staff, my eyes were perpetually drawn to the little black shredder on the floor. And when I reluctantly glanced over at it, I noticed a sliver of white paper stuck to the inside of the clear plastic bin. I could just make out the letter "C," typed on the front. Whether it was a C from the name Connors or a C from some harmless word like "coffee" or "car" or "credit card," I couldn't be sure. But it didn't really matter. What mattered was that it was there.

With sudden frustration, jumped to my feet and yanked out the plastic container from underneath the shredder. Then I stormed out of my office, down the hallway, and toward the double glass doors of the reception area.

Upon seeing me emerge, Hadley jumped to her feet. She eyed the bin in my hands. "I can empty that if you want!"

"It's okay," I huffed, trying not to let my unstable emotions taint my tone. "I needed something to do."

The elevator was crowded when I stepped inside, and I scurried to take my place near the back, cradling the container protectively in my arms. When we reached the ground floor, a few strange looks followed me out and I headed straight for the security guard's desk.

"Where's the Dumpster?" I asked the uniformed guard, who stood upon seeing me approach.

He reached for the bin. "I'll take care of it, ma'am," he offered with an amiable smile.

But I clenched it tighter against my chest. "That's okay. I need to do this."

He eyed me with apprehension, and I swear I saw him eye his security phone as well. But then he eventually pointed toward a door in the back of the lobby and said, "In the alley, behind the building."

I flashed him my most gracious smile. "Thanks."

Once I reached the big blue Dumpster outside, I wasted no time, emptying the contents of my bin, shaking and tapping the sides violently in an effort to make sure every single last fragment of a piece got exactly where it needed to go. And as I watched the million tiny specks of paper drift into the abyss, I prayed that this would be the end of it. That this would give me the strength to walk back into my office, pick up the phone, and tell Julie Bleeker, without a hint of doubt in my voice, that I could not under any circumstances be the one to take on her case.

But as I stood in the alley behind my building, holding the empty shredder bin in my hands, I could see her face in my head. I could hear her words pleading with me. The desolation in her voice was poking holes in my resolve so rapidly that I couldn't possibly patch them all up fast enough.

And I knew that eventually I had to accept the fact that maybe my resolve just wasn't all that solid to begin with.

This is not who you are anymore.

That was my first thought as I stepped hesitantly into the lobby of the W Hotel in Westwood on the following Wednesday night. Although it was less of a thought and more of a mental reproach from my hyperactive mind. It had been running on overdrive for the past week. I was actually surprised it hadn't exhausted itself and given up already.

You should just turn around and leave.

Another direct order promptly ignored. I was getting good at that. Ignoring my own authority.

Because I didn't turn around. I didn't leave. I just kept on walking, farther and farther into the hotel and the unprecedented night that lay ahead of me. Both seemed to have this kind of ominous glow around them, like something out of a bad horror film. And I felt as if someone should cue the fog machine.

It was that woman's voice that kept propelling me forward. It was replaying in the back of my mind like fuel being tossed repeatedly atop a dying fire. Every time my mind tried to impart one of its adamant injunctions—
get in your car, drive straight home, lock the door behind you
—the sound of her voice and the desperation that saturated it immediately drowned out any and all sense of reason.

It was an epic battle. Legendary. One that was fought by all people, in all countries, at any given hour of the day. Good vs. evil. The angel and the devil campaigning tirelessly from opposite shoulders.

It was the timeless fight between what I
wanted
to do and what I knew I
should
do. Or in this case,
shouldn't.

I wanted to help her. The way I had helped so many women before her. I wanted to once again feel that fleeting sense of fulfillment that had washed over me when I revealed the truth to someone and knew without doubt that it would change that person's life for the better. Like a roller coaster, it was a rush beyond words and over too soon. I had been craving it every day. Yearning for it. And now it was waiting for me somewhere in this hotel. On a silver platter.

Then there was the
should.
The promises I had not only made, but vowed to keep. The person I had been struggling to become for the past year.

It was Ashlyn vs. Jennifer all over again. My past and my future coming to a head. Someone would have to win the battle. Someone would have to claim victory. And as I stepped farther into the lobby of the W Hotel and my eyes zeroed in on the entrance of the hotel bar only a few short paces in front of me, I had a feeling I knew where to place my bet.

Go home!
my mind commanded.
This is all wrong!

I pushed forward, trying to drown out my ever intrusive conscience. I thought about Julie Bleeker. Her sad, frightened eyes. Her trembling voice. Her fidgeting hands. She needed me right now. She needed me to be
here.

I had called her back that same day. I should have known I couldn't fight this. I should have known that "yes" was the only answer I would ever be able to give her.

The picture of Ryan Bleeker she had given me was tucked away in a small compartment of my purse. I had removed it from the case file before I left as an insurance policy. In case I had trouble recognizing him and needed a last minute visual confirmation. Besides my impromptu assignment with Benjamin Connors a few weeks back, it had been a long time since I'd matched a real live face in a dimly lit hotel bar to a two-dimensional photograph.

At the thought of Benjamin Connors, my mind instantly seized the moment and attempted once again to talk some sense into me.

Yes, Benjamin Connors! Remember what happened after that? Remember what happened when you got home? And that wasn't even planned.

It was right. My mind, that is. Benjamin Connors
wasn't
planned. It was a last-minute, split-second decision. And this was entirely premeditated. The result of a torturous internal debate. One that was apparently still raging in my head.

But I had already made my decision. My mind just needed to shut up and go along with it. It had been defeated, and now it was time to surrender with dignity.

"Can I get you something to drink?"

I looked up to see the bartender smiling as he placed a cocktail napkin in front of me. I had made it all the way to the bar, an accomplishment in and of itself. Now came the waiting.

It's not too late, you know? You can still back out. You can still leave.

I nodded. "Yes, I'll have a Heineken," I told the bartender.

According to his wife, it was Ryan Bleeker's favorite beer. And ironically enough, it was Jamie's as well. But I purposefully avoided that reflection. It would be foolish to willingly hand ammunition to my enemy.

I slid onto an empty bar stool and twirled it around so that I was facing out into the room. Wednesday night at the W Hotel was a happening time. I knew the growing crowd would only make Ryan Bleeker more difficult to spot. I would just have to pay extra-close attention.

I opened my purse and peeked inside. Ryan Bleeker's smiling face was staring back at me. I studied his features, committing them to memory for the one hundredth time this week. Or maybe I was just checking to make sure it was still there. That this was still real.

Before closing my bag again, I stole a quick glance at my cell phone, giving it a swift tap with the tip of my index finger to light up the screen.

It was blank. No new messages. No new texts.

There was a part of me—the rational
should
part—that wanted Jamie to call. As if hearing his voice would be like some kind of sign that I shouldn't go through with it.

Things had been so awkward between us during this past week. It was as if we were simply coexisting. Going through the motions. "How was your day?" "What do you want for dinner?" "Are you ready for bed?"

Empty questions with even emptier answers.

We hadn't had sex—or, rather,
started
to have sex—since that day I came back from Vegas. And neither of us had mentioned our lack of physical intimacy. In fact, neither of us had mentioned much of anything lately.

I was somewhat relieved when Jamie told me on Sunday night that he had to go to Phoenix for a few days for work. And when he left this morning, the apartment felt lighter somehow. As though a heavy, menacing cloud had drifted away and for a moment it finally felt safe to breathe.

To be honest, his absence only made it that much easier to come here tonight. Because I knew I wouldn't have to lie. . . .

You're still going to have to lie to him.

At least not to his face.

A group of guys walked into the bar, and I mentally scanned their faces for a match. I knew from my meeting with Julie Bleeker that Ryan was thirty-two years old, six feet tall, and about a hundred and eighty pounds. I also knew that the friend he was coming to visit was around the same age, same height, but slightly bulkier. The men who were now entering the room were far too young to fit either description.

I took another sip of my beer and stole another glance at the photograph hidden in my purse. And as I did, I let my finger
accidentally
drag along the screen of my phone once again. It activated obligingly. But there was still nothing for it to display.

Why do you keep checking your phone if you've already made up your mind?

It was a valid question. One I did not have a valid answer for. So I simply opted to let it hang.

Another group of people flooded through the entrance of the bar, but still no sign of Ryan Bleeker. I was starting to feel antsy. I couldn't sit still in my seat. I thought about getting up and walking a few laps around the hotel lobby or maybe even stepping out by the pool to get some fresh air. But I didn't want to miss him.

I had come this far. I wasn't going to let Julie Bleeker down because of a stupid oversight.

She had asked for
me.
She had asked for
my
help, not anyone else's. Why shouldn't I give that to her?

Just then, I felt my phone vibrate in my bag. As if it were directly answering the question I had just posed. My entire body jolted, and I nearly fell off the bar stool.

What if that was him? What if it was Jamie? What would I do then? Would I answer it and lie about where I was and what I was doing? Or would I simply let it ring and deal with it later?

Or will you leave because you know you shouldn't be here?

There it was again. The
should.
Following me every step of the way like a pestering time-share salesman. Why couldn't I just make a decision and stick with it? Why did I have to be haunted by some ghost of supposed morality?

Because you know deep down inside that you made the wrong choice.

That last one stuck with me. So much so that I had to take pause and think about it. I stared down at the beer in my hand and then up at the crowd in the bar. It had nearly doubled since I'd first arrived. Men were talking, women were laughing, music was playing. I knew how loud the noise in the room must have been, but I couldn't hear a thing.

Suddenly, my surroundings reminded me of an old silent movie. Mouths moving but nothing coming out.

Fine,
I eventually yielded to my other half.
If that's Jamie calling, I'll walk out of here right now. I'll leave and never look back. But if it's not . . .

I didn't finish the thought. I didn't have to. That rational, highly outspoken part of me got the point. And it quietly succumbed to the acceptable compromise.

The noise in the room came back with sudden force. My phone had already stopped vibrating, and as I slid my bag over my shoulder, I could feel the subsequent single vibration alerting me to a new voicemail. I scooted off the bar stool and hurried back into the lobby. If it was Jamie, I wanted to be somewhere quiet enough to hear his message.

And you'll want to be closer to the exit.

The contrast of the crowded bar and the relatively calmer lobby was severe. And I welcomed its tranquillity. The hordes of people had started to make me feel claustrophobic.

I took a deep breath and slid my purse off my shoulder, feeling in its straps the weight of the bargain I had just made. If it was Jamie who had called, this night would be over before it even began. And I would have to tell Julie Bleeker that I wouldn't be able to help her after all.

But if it wasn't him, I would walk back into that bar and continue on with no regrets.

With an audible exhale, I unzipped the bag and pulled out the phone, knowing that whatever name was displayed on that list of missed calls would send my heart into palpitations.

I sucked in a breath and peered at the screen. Just as I expected, my heart started pounding.

But not because I had to leave . . . because I had to stay. And my mind could no longer put forth halfway convincing arguments to persuade me otherwise. It had lost the bet, and now all was deathly quiet.

The screen of my iPhone was small, but seeing my dad's name displayed on it made it feel bigger than the JumboTron at Dodger Stadium.

Fitting, really. That my dad would be the one to win this wager for me. I almost had to laugh.

Almost.

I knew exactly why he was calling. He wanted to have that obligatory post-dinner conversation. The one where I'm forced to "review" his
third
wife as if she's the long-awaited follow-up novel from a best-selling author and I'm the infamously hard-to-please
New York Times
book critic.

But I couldn't deal with that now. I had a job to do. And now that the war in my head had been won, there was no more doubting. No more second-guessing. It was time to march back in there and do exactly what I had come here to do.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and turned back in the direction from which I'd come. Very soon, Ryan Bleeker would be walking into that bar, and I would be ready and waiting for him.

But before I could complete the rotation, my eye caught sight of someone entering through the front door of the lobby, walking straight toward me. I whipped my head back around in astonishment and stared at him, my eyes blinking rapidly to make sure my vision hadn't suddenly been impaired.

Air stopped flowing through my lungs. Blood stopped pumping through my veins. Every inch of me, inside and out, was frozen.

I didn't need to check the photograph in my bag again to verify. This was definitely
not
the person I had come to see.

It was the person I had left behind.