Page 57 of The Perfect Divorce

“Bullshit. When she worked here, you two were at each other’s throats. She thought you were an arrogant asshole who acted like you were better than her.”

“Iaman arrogant asshole, and Iwasbetter than her. Just barely as a lawyer but certainly as a businessman. I was hard on Sarah for a reason. I molded her into the lawyer I knew she was capable of becoming. How do you think she made named partner so young? Do you think that happens by me taking it easy on someone, never pushing them to reach their full potential? It was tough love because that’s how I love. I care for Sarah deeply, and I wasn’t going to stand by and allowyouto make her look like a fool.”

“You have no idea what you’ve done,” I say, clenching my fists, which are resting in my lap. It’s taking everything in me not to fly across this desk.

“You did this. Not me. You’re the one that couldn’t keep your dick out of a hot waitress. I was merely the messenger.” Kent lifts his chin.

“Oh, fuck off. Like you haven’t dicked down most of your secretaries. We’ve all heard the rumors.”

“Careful, Bob,” he warns.

“Is that why your bitch of a niece is your admin now? Did your wife finally put her foot down and force you to hire someone you legally couldn’t fuck?”

“That’s it,” he says, slamming his fist against his desk. “You’re on suspension. Three weeks without pay. Go sort your shit out and come back with a severely improved attitude.”

“I’m a named partner. You can’t suspend me.”

“Oh yes, I can, or did you forget that my name is on the fucking building.”

“So is mine,” I say, gritting my teeth.

“Keep this up and it won’t be.”

I grind my teeth side to side. Heat radiates off every inch of me while beads of sweat trickle down my back. I force myself to swallow all the words I want to scream at him because I don’t want to lose this job. Kent stares back at me with narrowed eyes and a raised chin. He never argues in court anymore, so I know this is a thrill for him, a throwback to his glory days. Fire burns behind his fleshy lids and it for sure won’t be extinguished anytime soon. I stand from my chair too quickly, making it topple over and thud against the floor, but I don’t bother picking it up.

I throw open his office door, letting the handle slam into the wall.

“That’s six weeks now!” Kent yells.

Candace doesn’t look up from her cell phone. “Enjoy your time off, Bob,” she says in a cheery voice.

I flip my middle finger up over my shoulder as I storm out of the office.

THIRTY-ONE

SHERIFF HUDSON

“What do we have here?” I take a wide step over the broken glass; it’s strewn all about the floor, nearly impossible to avoid. My boots crunch over the shards as I walk farther into the Cuts by Carissa hair salon.

The scene in front of me is more than just a smashed window as initially reported. The place has been ransacked—chairs knocked over, salon supplies scattered across the floor, broken mirrors. I bend down, eyeing several crimson stains near one of the stylists’ stations, as well as scattered dark-brown, almost-black hair clippings. There’s blood, a lot of it, which is why I’m here. The forensics team is already on scene, collecting evidence and photographing every square inch of this place.

“I’m not sure, Sheriff,” Nagel says. “Deputy Lane arrived on scene for a reported B&E, but when he realized it was possibly more than that, he requested a supervisor. Once we got inside and saw all the blood, well, I called you.” He gestures to a pair of shears lying in a pool of blood. A trail of crimson liquid leads to the back of the salon, starting off as wet droplets and dribbles before turning to smeared blood as though something or someone was dragged through it.

“Who called this in?” I ask.

“An employee from the café next door. They noticed the smashed window when they passed by on their way to work.”

“Do we have an idea as to who this blood belongs to?”

“My guess would be the owner, Carissa Brooks. Her purse and cell phone are in the office, and a Kia Sorento registered to her is parked out back.”

I survey the scene, taking in every detail, attempting to string them all together to re-create the story of what could have happened here. I follow the trail of blood until it becomes smeared and suddenly stops at the back door. Pushing it open, I canvass the lot. The Kia Sorento is parked in front of a sign that readsCuts by Carissa Employee, and there’s a security camera fastened to the outside wall, aimed at the exit door.

“What about this camera?” I say, pointing up at it.

“That was the first thing I checked. It’s not connected to anything. Just a dummy cam to scare off would-be thieves.”

I shake my head. That’s the problem with a small town. No one thinks anything bad can happen to them, so they go with security that’s meant to deter but doesn’t actually work. I follow the blood back inside, double-checking if I missed anything unusual—well, more unusual than a trail of blood.

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