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wrap it up easily.”
       “All right, that sounds fine.” I had no idea what sounded fine. I had no idea what private investigators charged, but at that point, I didn’t really care, either. I just needed to move in a new direction and this was the one that made the most sense. “When is your earliest availability for the consultation?”
       “One of our agents has an opening tomorrow afternoon. Does one o’clock work for you?”
       “Sure. That will be fine.”
       “Great. Do you need the address to our offices?”
       “No, I’ve got them right here on the computer.”
       “Great, we’ll see you then.”
       The line disconnected and I felt my breath leave me suddenly. What had my life come to? Hiring private investigators to spy on my husband? I never imagined that this was where I’d be seven years ago when I told Derrek, “I do” through laughter and smiles. I’d been so excited to marry him that I couldn’t even contain myself long enough to make it through the vows. I’d smiled and laughed through the entire ceremony, happiness bubbling over. I was nowhere near smiling and laughing now. But I wasn’t crying, so I thought that was a step in the right direction.
       I took in a deep breath and, even though I didn’t think I should have to, I started picking up all the papers I’d strewn across the room. I bagged them all up and put them in the big trash bin in our garage. I couldn’t find it in me to care if he needed them or not, more than likely – since he never really spent time here anymore – he wouldn’t even notice they were missing.
     
       The next day, I was just about to leave for my appointment at PDX Investigates when my phone rang, showing an unfamiliar number. It wasn’t often I received calls from strange numbers, so I answered with a slow and suspicious, “Hello?”
       “Is this Lena Bellows?” As soon as I heard the deep and gravelly voice on the other end of the line, I knew I’d never spoken to this man before. I would remember a voice like his, remember the way just him saying my name made shivers run down my spine. I took note of my reaction, but pressed forward with the conversation.
       “Yes, this is she. Who am I speaking with?”
       “My name is Preston Reid, and we have an appointment. I’m with PDX Investigates.”
       “Oh, all right. What can I do for you?”
       “I am out working on something for a client and won’t be able to make it back to the office in time for our meeting. I was hoping you could meet me for a drink so we could discuss your case.”
       “Oh, um, I suppose. I don’t see why not. Where did you have in mind?”
       “There’s a martini bar on Third, on the East side, called Bartini.”
       Clever. “But it will only be one in the afternoon. Will they even be open?”
       “I know the owners.”
       “All right. I’ll meet you there.” The line went dead and I realized the men who worked for PDX Investigates needed to be taught how to end a phone conversation.  Twice I’d been hung up on. I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.
      
       When I walked into Bartini, I noticed the elaborate Moroccan theme apparent throughout. There were many round tables with deep red tablecloths draped over them, candles – although unlit at this hour – and gold accents everywhere. There were throw pillows placed on bench seats, golden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, and beautiful, lush fabrics in all manner of jewel tones draped the walls in lieu of wallpaper or paint. As I was admiring the décor, a man who worked there led me to a table and told me Mr. Reid would be there any minute. He asked me if I would like a drink and, despite the hour, I told him I’d take a vodka martini, wet, and with an olive.
       I pulled out my phone to pass the time and noticed a text message from Derrek.
    **I have to go out of town for a few days on business. Don’t expect me home until Sunday