“My traumatic childhood isn’t up for discussion,” she responds in a chipper tone, but I can still hear some of the pain she tries her best to hide.
That’s a conversation for another day, I guess.
“I’ll come to Missouri and do it myself if I have to!”
I laugh at her ridiculousness.
“I’ll change the sheets on the guest bed.”
“Perfect. So, what else has been going—”
“Fuck,” I hiss. “Sarah, I have to call you back.”
“Are you ditching me to play online games?”
“No, it’s work. Talk soon.”
I hang up before she can respond. Actually, I’ve been ignoring Wasp’s messages on TalkToMe and the ping I get occasionally from the Orc’s Realm game I have running in the background because the assignment I’ve been working on has become more difficult than I ever anticipated.
Mr. Jones paid very well for this research—the stuff he all but said is an investigation on a high-stakes player in the organization—but it isn’t exactly leading me to where he was thinking it would.
I’m finding suspicious activity, but it isn’t related to the Bureau. The things that are popping up are more personal in nature, as in what I’m staring at right now confirms that William Theold isn’t screwing over the FBI, he’s screwing over his wife.
Big time.
So hard.
I take another look at his travel schedule, the one that was easily grabbed from the records in an FBI database. He splits his time between Boston and San Diego—offices literally the entire length of the country apart.
He keeps a home at both locations because of the extensive traveling. His wife and two sons live with him in San Diego. His mistress and son live at his home in Boston.
This man is literally living two separate lives.
“What a piece of shi—no! Fourteen years?”
I dig deeper, the Jerry Springer episode playing out before my eyes as more information flashes across my screen. I’m mining it in quick succession, so I’ll have to dig into the details later. It’s never safe to stay in one spot electronically very long. It increases the chance of leaving a footprint behind.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
He has two fucking sons with the same damn name. Does that make it easier when he’s home lying to both women?
I wonder how old little William Theold, Jr.—either of them—will be when he Googles his own name online only to discover another kid that looks nearly identical to him because of course, good old Willie has a type. Seems thin, blonde, and oblivious is what appeals to this guy.
I know I’m removed from the situation, but I can’t imagine the firestorm that will occur when these women find out about each other.
The dossier I was provided to start my research on Mr. Theold questioned his loyalty to the Bureau and suggested he was taking bribes. I have several other programs running to dig deeper, but this isn’t FBI related. Although they may have a morality cause, in which case, he’s in big trouble.
Even as shitty as this guy is, if I don’t find anything related to what Mr. Jones is looking for, I don’t know if this is something I should hand over to him. I mean, if I don’t find anything professional related, it’s not going to stop me from setting this man’s world on fire because no one deserves to be swindled like these two women, but that doesn’t mean Mr. Jones is privileged to what I’ve found. He does have three children to take care of after all.
“What the what?”
My head snaps back when I check dates. The wife, a beautiful woman named Amanda, was actually the second relationship. He was in a domestic partnership with the equally gorgeous Rebecca for two years before anything with Amanda started tracking. Amanda got the ring, whereas Rebecca was stuck with some shoddy-ass common law label?
I can’t even make this shit up even though it’s reading like some damn twisted novel.
“Oh no,” I whisper when I delve into their social media. “Make that five kids.”
You guessed it, both women are currently pregnant.
“Disgusting.”
I shove the drawer holding my keyboard closed and stand from my desk. I’ve dealt with some horrible stuff. Honestly, stuff worse than this—there are a lot of predators online.
This man. God, a man that’s supposed to be a beacon of integrity. Right now, he’s just trash, but so help me if I find one slipup, one unpaid parking ticket, one crumb of a crime, I’m going to personally make sure his head rolls.
“Men are trash,” I tell Simon as I scratch behind his ear, pausing on my way to the kitchen for a snack.
He purrs. As always, my little faithful companion rolls over on his back, instigating tummy rubs.
“Are male kitties just as bad?”
He gives me a tiny meow, instruction to keep rubbing his belly as his eyes grow soft and squinty.
“I know they are.” My voice is soft and comforting. “But we don’t talk about the way you acted before I took you to the doctor, do we?”
His purring falters, but my fingers must feel good because he doesn’t pounce off the couch and hide under the coffee table like he did for weeks after I had him neutered. He hated me, but it was the responsible thing to do. Also, I was exhausted from him scratching on the window and bellowing like a lady cat was nearby and I was stopping him from a little midnight visit.
Standing in the kitchen, I drink a bottle of cold water until I drain it dry and nibble on a granola bar until l feel calm enough not to send Rebecca a link to Amanda’s social media and vice versa.
When I sit back down at my computer, I log the data that I’ve mined and start up a couple more programs. Now that I’ve found the connections to these two women, I can easily branch out and see where those limbs take me.
I log off, continuing to ignore the messages sent by Wasp because honestly, I don’t know if
