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casual" section of my closet.
    "You have one new message," the electronic voice announced.
    "Hi, Jen. It's...Dad..."
    Suddenly, my whole body froze. My hand stopped on a red cashmere sweater, and then dropped numbly to my side, causing the sweater to slip from the hanger and fall to the ground. I stood as still as I could, as if any movement might trigger an emotional minefield, causing the entire room to burst into flames.
    I listened intently as my father's voice came through the small speaker. "Look, I know it's been a long time. But I thought maybe we could try talking again." There was a loud muffled sigh and a long pause.
    I could feel the anger bubbling up inside my stomach, ready to boil over. I turned my head and looked toward the entrance of my closet, waiting for the next word.
    And that's when it came.
    "Honey, I'm getting married." He paused again. "She's really great. I want you to meet her. I would really like for you to come to the wedding. It would mean a lot to me. To both of us..."
    As if released from a witch's evil spell, instantly my body unfroze and I marched into the bedroom. I violently threw myself at the machine. My hand landed with a loud thud on the nightstand, and I managed to locate the delete button. In a zealous rage, I pounded my finger on it at least a dozen times, and then eventually just held it down for what felt like an eternity.
    Feeling confident that the message had been thoroughly erased and all remnants of it had been effectively destroyed by the mere force of my finger, I returned to my closet, determined to pick out the perfect outfit for my meeting with Mrs. Jacobs.
    My closet, according to an envious and label-obsessed Sophie, was a "fashionista's paradise." Every label was properly represented: Gucci, Dior, Dolce & Gabbana, Marc Jacobs, Fendi, and whomever else Vogue or InStyle recommended a girl have in her closet.
    Because to be honest, I knew very little about fashion. I'd never had a knack for it. And in my line of work, that was always an obstacle.
    Most of my outfits required a lot of research and preparation.
    I reemerged from my bedroom five minutes later in a conservative green pantsuit with a cream-colored camisole underneath and a colorful scarf tied around my neck. It was a look that Cosmo had called "suburban chic" in their August issue, and given that I was about to enter the treacherous waters of chic suburbia (aka Orange County), I figured that outfit was the perfect fit. I slung my gym bag over my shoulder and carried my favorite Hermès Birkin in one hand, and with the other hand I pulled a cheap, black carry-on suitcase I had bought at Target this week, containing my "costume" and other "props" for tonight's assignment.
    I stuck my head into the laundry room to see Marta emptying out the contents of the suitcase from last night's trip into the washing machine.
    "Thanks, Marta. Have a great weekend."
    Her head popped up. "You're welcome, Miss Hunter. You will need your suitcase again tomorrow?"
    "Yes, actually I will," I replied. "I'm flying to San Francisco in the morning."
    "Okay, I wash it now," Marta said, reaching to the shelf above the washer and dryer and removing a scrub brush and a bottle of industrial-strength disinfectant wash.
    "Thank you."
    I'm sure she had all sorts of interesting questions about me. Who is this girl? What kind of job keeps her away from home nearly five days a week? How is she able to afford a place this nice at such a young age? (At twenty-eight years old, I was the youngest home owner in the complex.) And most important, why on earth do I have to disinfect her suitcase every time she comes home from a business trip?
    But she's never asked me any of these questions. And so I've never felt compelled to make up any stories to answer them. For all I know, she probably thinks that I visit toxic waste sites for a living, or spend my free time roaming the halls of the Centers for Disease Control without a biohazard suit. But that's