I watched, frozen, as the woman kissed him on the mouth. I watched as the little boy tugged his sleeve and called him “Daddy.”
I paid my bill and left, my heart hammering against my ribs. I walked to my car, sat in the driver’s seat, and gripped the wheel. If he was cheating on his family, lying to everyone… then my son was walking into a trap. A family built on quicksand.
I needed proof.
I hired Mark Reynolds. He came recommended by a friend who had survived a messy divorce. His office was on the second floor above a dry cleaner that smelled of chemical solvents and old coffee. Mark was fifty, thin, with glasses that slid down his nose and a demeanor that suggested he had seen the worst of humanity and was no longer impressed.
“Sit down, Mrs. Carter,” he said, gesturing to a worn chair. “How can I help?”
I told him everything. The arrogance, the insults to my son, the woman at the coffee shop.
“I need to know who he really is,” I said. “I need to know what my son is getting into.”
Mark nodded, taking notes. “I charge five hundred a week plus expenses. I’ll need a photo.”
