YOU HAVE TO HANG ON

The Sample

Prologue

Something crashes into the trees along the driveway where I’ve embedded myself, trying to be close but invisible. I shiver the split second after I hear the sound, because someone else might think it’s a car backfiring, but I know better now. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and goosebumps prickle my arms.

And then I hear it again.

And I run.

I run faster than I’ve ever run before, but it’s too far, and I’m not fast enough. Ahead of me, the driver’s side door to the SUV opens and Sofia leaps out.

She sprints around the car, only a hundred feet ahead, but faster. The garage is lit up by overhead lights, and the nightmares I’ve been fighting since I was a kid come in fast and hot. Immediately there’s the bone-deep knowledge that no matter what I do, it won’t be enough.

My legs pump faster, so fast I don’t think they’re touching the ground. My breathing is ragged, the fabric damp against my lips. I yank the mask, freeing my nose and mouth. The cold night air is sharp in my lungs, and when I reach the garage, everything stops. This exact moment feels long compared to the seconds that came before, even though I know it’s a trick of my mind.

I blink and the scene comes into focus: the bodies on the ground. The blood.

The regret.

But the sacrifice has to be worth it because of Olivia. The only true innocent in this.

I scramble into the garage.

Part 1

Three Weeks Earlier

Chapter 1
Harriett

The Bastard is definitely cheating.

He’s good at it—I’ve yet to actually see him with another woman—but all indicators point to infidelity. Not just the things The Client noticed—a passcode on his phone, a new tendency to work late, a penchant for working out replacing his proclivity toward sloth, unusual cash withdrawals, and the intangible but significant gut feeling—but the things I’ve documented, too. Repeated visits to the same boutique hotel, purchases of flowers never once delivered to The Client, the professional development workshops he signed up for but never attended.

The hidden bank account.

I shift in the front seat of my car—parked at his office—trying to restore blood flow to my ass. If I don’t get out soon, my legs will tingle and bite when I stand, slowing and distracting me. And I hate being distracted. Distractions crack the insulated container in my brain dedicated to my work, the one thing that makes me happy-adjacent. And they’re risky. Dangerous.

Normally he walks out at 12:01 exactly—a creature of adulterous habit. I’ve been leaving the building next door at 12:02 every day for weeks to establish my pattern, allowing me to blend into the nondescript monotony of his day as I catalog his movements. I track him before work, during lunch, and after work. I have other cases, but right now The Bastard is my primary focus. 

The clock flips from 12:29 to 12:30.

There’s only so long I can sit here pretending to be on the phone before I become noticeable to the various people in and out of the buildings of this suburban office complex during lunchtime. And visibility is a private investigator’s worst enemy.

A black Mercedes parks behind me. Same make, model, and tag as the one owned by the woman I suspect is The Bastard’s mistress. The one car that was always at the hotel at the same time The Bastard was and doesn’t tie back to an employee—and I know, because I logged every single car every single time and ran the plates.

This is an anomaly, since they always meet at the hotel. An escalation in risk that shows either complacency, confidence, or arrogance, but that may work to my advantage.

At 12:44, The Bastard’s receptionist walks out the front door, right on time, and I enter the data in my log. One hour, sixteen minutes until her return. And she’s never returned early.

The door of the Mercedes opens. A spiky heel emerges before a long, toned leg, followed by a curved body. The tits were clearly paid for, maybe the ass, too.

I pull the phone from my ear and snap a few pictures before she hurries into the office. He never meets with clients during lunch, so it’s probably a liaison, but opportunity and proximity don’t equal proof. I need more.

I turn the car on and back up, then pull out. I need to stash the car somewhere The Mistress won’t see again. The donut shop behind the complex should work.

I pull into the parking lot and slide into a spot, grabbing my digital camera. Satisfied no one is looking, I duck into the trees. I’ve walked this path daily to get a glimpse of him in his office, building a complete registry of his movements. Wet leaves buffer my footfalls, but the late winter branches do nothing to hide my movement as I approach the line of trees ringing the small clearing that abuts The Bastard’s building.

He may be a member of the lucky sperm club, having gotten his millions from his daddy and lucrative investments instead of from his own work, but that doesn’t make him smart. He doesn’t close the blinds, likely assuming no one would be looking in from the trees. White men are so comfortable being seen, never second guessing their own safety.

But today someone is looking. And today, hopefully, there will be something to see: the one thing I need to finish this project and give The Client the leverage she seeks.

Proof.

I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, slinking toward the building. I have to be fast, but even if someone spots me, I’ll be gone long before any police arrive. I’ve never been caught doing surveillance, but my PI’s license is the free pass if I do.

The brick is cold through my sweatshirt as I flatten my back against the wall. I need eyes inside, so I hold my phone up, camera on selfie to get a surreptitious peek at what’s happening.

The Bastard and The Mistress are copulatively focused, so I slide the phone in my pocket. High-res photos of his dick in her mouth should do the trick.

But they go full hide-the-sausage, The Mistress sprawled on the desk next to a photo of The Client and their kids. This level of proof is an unexpected, but welcome stroke of luck.

I’ve snapped several photos—more than enough to prove infidelity—when the tone of the fucking changes. It’s clearly no longer consensual, and she tries to push him away. The Bastard grabs her hair and yanks her head back, raising his voice so that it carries clearly through the thin glass of the window.

“You like it rough,” he says with an infuriating cockiness.

“You’re hurting me.” The Mistress’s tone is desperate. “Stop.” He doesn’t.

Well, now. A stop order has been issued, but it seems it will need to be repeated. By me. I have zero tolerance for this kind of bullshit, and no taste for violence, unless I’m the one inflicting it. But even then, only if deserved.

I drape the camera around my neck and slide my gun from the holster at my back, shield my eyes, and smash the window with the butt of my gun, glass tinkling like rain, then run to the side of the building and dart across the clearing and well into the woods. It’s unlikely he’ll re-engage, not with a breeze on his ass and glass on the floor.

I wait a careful minute, then one more, and loop back around to the trees. The office is empty. I walk parallel to the building until I can see beyond it.

The Mistress’s car is gone.

I jog nimbly through the woods, slowing as I reach the edge of the parking lot, then get in my car and drive away. A half mile later I pull into a Walmart, parking halfway down the aisle: close enough so as not to arouse suspicion, far enough there won’t be many people passing. I retrieve my laptop and power it up, connecting the camera to the computer and downloading the pictures. As they copy, I connect to Walmart’s WiFi.

Some things in life are free.

After uploading the photos, I back them up, copy them to a thumb drive, then shut the computer. I’ll provide the thumb drive with all the digital photos to The Client, of course, but I also like to have a few printed copies on hand for illustrative purposes. I no longer show them on a tablet or laptop for risk of it being thrown. That’s a mistake you only make once.

I open my phone and text The Client before heading inside, empty folder tucked under my arm, sliding my hands into my pockets against the cold.

As I approach the photo counter, The Dropout looks up but doesn’t wave. At this particular Walmart, I pay a twenty-something college washout looking for an extra buck to print what I need, erase the trail the photos leave, and keep his mouth shut. Preparation is always your friend, and privacy for my clients is of the utmost importance.

“Interesting bunch today,” he says.

I nod, saying nothing. A couple bucks is enough compensation. He doesn’t get details.

When the photos are done, I swap them for a fifty. The three glossy eight by tens cost less than six dollars, but I don’t bother with change. Happy people stay quiet.

My phone vibrates as I cross the parking lot and I check the message from The Client without breaking stride. I’ll meet you at my house in fifteen minutes.

We’ve always met at my office. I’m surprised by the deviation, and on alert. Two pattern deviations in one day are suspicious, although it’s highly unlikely they’re related. But this seems like a time when The Client would want to avoid being caught with a private investigator.

I get paid either way—not my circus, not my monkey—but I don’t like changes in habit, and my own risk tolerance takes priority.

Why​? I ask.

I don’t have time to get to your office, meet, and get home to meet the school bus.

This seems like an acceptable reason to deviate from routine, and it means the children aren’t at home. I’ll allow it.

I arrive at The Client’s neighborhood thirteen minutes later and am buzzed through a pointless gate—I could have just left my car on the corner and come through the open pedestrian walkway. I’ll never understand the security needs of people with money. They build literal and figurative barriers to show that they’re not like the rest of us—to remind us that they’re better and thus need protections we don’t—but they forget it’s the rest of us who maintain that barrier and make sure their gates stay closed.

Why The Client works when her husband is this wealthy baffles me, though the invitation for deep conversation inherent in that question is too big a risk to make it worth asking. Just like I never refer to or think of clients by name. Names imply familiarity—a connection—and I prefer to keep my distance. Not just from clients. From everyone. Intimacy is too painful—closeness brings too many opportunities to get hurt.

I do know them, though. Their names. The Client’s is Claire.

Her perfectly manicured lawn looks like a golf course, and the door opens as I approach the flagstone steps leading to the massive house. The Client and I have similar features, but with notable differences. Her hair is a paid for golden honey, whereas mine is a natural white blonde. She puts effort into maintaining a slim physique, punishing her body’s natural tendencies with near starvation and grueling workouts, whereas I’m skin and bones but don’t give a shit what I look like. All I care about my body is that it lets me do my job and doesn’t draw attention. Though my height—or lack of—is sometimes a problem in that regard.

Today she’s wearing bright pink scrubs with unicorns. I know without asking or being told that The Client is a pediatric oncology nurse. Why anyone would want to subject themselves to both children and grief—things best experienced by other people and in private—daily is beyond me, but I’m glad there are people who can. I couldn’t.

And she’s a good person. Since The Bastard is definitely a bad one, helping her is more satisfying. I prefer it this way. I like justice, espeically when I get to enact it myself.

“Are we safe here?” I ask in greeting.

“Hello to you too, and yes, Joshua’s occupied by an attempted break-in at his office.”

I remain silent. I’ll imply nothing. I’m a fortress.

I follow her down a wide hallway to a huge kitchen, mentally photographing everything should I need it later. There are an annoying number of photos of children at indeterminate ages.

I slide out a kitchen chair and sit without being invited to.

“Something to drink?” The Client asks.

“Coffee. Black.”

The Client selects a pod for the fancy coffee machine.

“Not decaf,” I say, clocking the one she grabbed. “The regular kind.”

The Client raises her eyebrows. “This time of afternoon?”

I fold my hands together and rest them on top of the folder I’ve placed on the table.

The Client sighs and selects the correct pod. When it’s finished, she slides the mug onto the table, taking the seat next to mine.

“Here are three sample photos.” I flip open the folder and slide it to her. “And the rest.” I hand her the thumb drive.

She picks up the photos one by one. It’s part of my job to provide information and its supporting evidence that will inevitably prove hurtful. Sometimes I’m helping destroy what was previously believed, sometimes presenting as truth what was just a whisper of fear before. This doesn’t bother me, though. I stopped feeling feelings after What Happened. I had to.

The Client rolls her lips inward but maintains her composure. Good for her.

“When are these from?”

“Today.”

“I don’t recognize her,” she says. “I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad.”

“I included a copy of her property tax record on the thumb drive.”

“Is she married, too?” The Client asks.

My eyes narrow. I’ve caught her husband with his dick in places it shouldn’t be, and that’s what she wants to know? This comes with the territory of being a good person, I suppose. Wondering if there are other innocents, having empathy for others who’ve been wronged. I nod.

“Children?”

I focus on the window beyond The Client’s head. “No.”

The Client nods. “A small blessing, I suppose.” It’s better if there aren’t more kids fucked up in their impressionable years, but it doesn’t lessen the infidelity.

She picks the photos up one by one, manicured hands gripping them so tightly they curl around her fingers. She stacks them, edges perfectly aligned, then slides them into the folder before resting her hands on top—an exact replica of my pose moments ago.

“Do I want to know what happened at his office?” The Client asks.

I shrug. How am I supposed to know what she wants? She’s smart, though, to have figured it out. I like when people are as smart as me—it keeps things interesting—but I wonder what gave me away. I can’t draw attention to whatever it is by asking, though.

“Okay, yes, tell me,” she says.

I lick my lips. Telling her risks being implicated in the “break-in,” but the metadata from the photos I gave her could do the same, and I’ve avoided ramifications from worse situations. Plus, it’s always better for women to know what kind of man they’re dealing with.

“It got rough. I invited him to reconsider his approach by breaking the window.”

The Client cocks her head and narrows her eyes, staring off into the distance. Perhaps trying to assimilate this version of her husband with the one that exists in her mind.

“I didn’t want to have to do this,” she whispers. “But I’ve tried to get him to treat me better, with respect. And I’m tired of him trampling on my dignity because he can’t keep his dick in his pants. Being rich doesn’t give you license to be an asshole, and it doesn’t give him the right to cheat. He needs to be punished the only place it will really hurt him. His wallet.”

This surprises me. I had her pegged as one of those rich people. Not a cheater, but someone who thinks their money makes them better. She’s been nothing but respectful, but that’s often true when someone has something you want. It’s when they don’t that you see their true nature. But I’ve completed the project, and she’s still treating me like an equal.

 “I’ve been stashing cash, but I believe this will give me what I need to invalidate the prenuptial agreement,” she says, refocusing on me, “and help with custody, too.” To my relief, her tone is businesslike again. She rises and extends her hand. “Thank you for your assistance.”

I look at her hand, then slowly back up, but not at her eyes. Eye contact is too intense. Too uncomfortable. She slides her hand into the pocket of her scrubs, pulling out an envelope.

“I believe this concludes our business together. I’ll call you again should the need arise.”

I slide the envelope into my pocket before rising to leave.

As I near the front door, there’s movement to my right, in the formal living room. A Latina woman stands next to a large piano wearing black leggings, worn sneakers, and a gray V-neck t-shirt, a navy bandanna keeping her dark hair back. The clothes are inexpensive but with no visible signs of wear, no wedding ring. She’s of average height and build, toned arms, dark eyes, freckles, likely right-handed based on how she’s holding the dust rag. No visible tattoos, and her demeanor is at ease and non-threatening, but still.

“I thought you said we were alone.” I don’t like being lied to or being unaware of people in my immediate vicinity. Threats I can see are safer than threats that sneak up with no warning.

The Client’s footsteps stutter, but her voice is firm. “No, I said we were safe. That isn’t the same thing.” She gestures to the woman. “This is Sofia, my housekeeper. Even if she heard any of what was said, I trust her.” The Client laughs. “Joshua barely knows she exists.”

My eyes stay on the woman, who stands tall and steady. There’s no malice in her eyes, but she’s firm in her gaze. Unapologetic. I’m a little impressed. And I’m rarely impressed.

“Hello,” the woman says haltingly. “It is nice to meet you. ¿Hablas español?”

I do, in fact, speak Spanish, but my business is done, here. Instead of responding, I turn and walk out the door, not bothering to close it behind me.