I went into our large closet that resembled more of a dressing room than a closet. I found my favorite jogging outfit, pulled it on, and sat on the bench to lace up my jogging shoes. Standing in front of the vanity, I swiped raven hair back from my face and affixed it in a tight ponytail at the back of my head.
When I left the house, I put the passcode into the security system and shut the door behind me. I stopped on the driveway to stretch a little before I took off. There was a treadmill in the gym inside the house, but I never ran on it. Derrek bought it a few years ago and I thought it was silly. I would much rather run outside than on an endless loop facing a wall. When I felt sufficiently warmed up, I started with a small jog up the street. I had a particular route I liked to take and if I ran the loop twice, it was equal to about four miles.
About halfway into my run, I started to feel the freedom I was searching for, the endorphin rush that catapulted me into a space in my mind where I could think clearly.
Derrek no longer loved me; that thought made itself abundantly clear. Surprisingly, once I'd thought it, I realized I had known it for a while. He tolerated me, at best. And although I didn't know if I was still in love with him, I knew things were far from where they'd started. But with all the new information, I knew my plan to try and resurrect our relationship was no longer an option. I needed a new plan.
So I kept running. I reached the four-mile mark and just kept going, hoping for more of that clarity I sought on my runs. Around mile six I stopped, breaths ragged and panting in and out at a rapid pace, with sweat dripping down my forehead. I was bent over, hands on my knees, thoughts racing through my brain.
I was exactly where I thought I'd safeguarded myself against being. This was what I had thought I was planning against. And he was pushing me out. Well, fuck that and fuck him. My house was just a few blocks up and I sprinted the entire way there. When I made it to the front door, I entered the passcode on the doorknob and after hearing the beep indicating the alarm system had been deactivated, I opened the door and stormed in.
I went straight for his office, my feet loudly stomping down the hallway. When I reached the office, I flung open the door and wasted no time heading to his desk. Pulling open drawers, I swept everything out, throwing all the contents on the floor. Not looking for anything in particular, just looking to make a mess, needing to take my anger out on something.
When all the drawers were empty, I moved on to the filing cabinet, finding that tossing papers over my shoulder and up in the air relieved almost as much tension as running. Taking something of his and destroying it was liberating and admittedly, made me feel better.
When I found myself ankle deep in forms and documents, breath heaving, hands shaking, I decided I'd done enough damage. I had visions of myself throwing his desktop out of the bay window behind me, but truth be told, I wasn't normally a destructive person and knew that would be going a little overboard.
I did, however, pull back his plush desk chair, rolling it over piles of papers, hearing the wheels crackling over my husband's hard work, and sat down. I wiggled the mouse to wake up the computer and then opened up a browser and went straight to Google. I typed in the words ‘private investigator'. I was flooded with results and went back to narrow down my search. I clicked in the text box again and added the word ‘Portland'. I hit enter and new results popped up. I scrolled down the page, my eyes gliding over all the information, and I realized I had no idea what I was looking for. One private investigator was just the same as the next, right? I found one listing that said ‘PDX Investigates'. I clicked on the link and was brought to a professional looking webpage that claimed the company was licensed and bonded. I had no clue what that meant, but it sounded official enough to me.
Standing, I then jogged to my bedroom, grabbed my cell phone, then jogged back to the computer and dialed the number.
"PDX Investigates. This is Todd. How can I help you?"
"Uh, hi, Todd. My name is Lena and I'm looking for some help. I need someone to find out some information for me about my husband."
"What kind of information are we talking about?" Todd asked, sounding busy and a little annoyed.
"Well, I'm pretty sure he's cheating on me and I'd like someone to help me find out for sure. I need irrefutable proof."
"Sure. We offer a free consultation, but if you decide to hire us to help, the rate is two hundred dollars an hour with a two thousand dollar retainer. Depending on how complicated your case is, we would either bill you monthly for the balance should you exceed your retainer, or refund you what's left if we 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 evening.**
I stared at the message in confusion, as if it were written in braille. Why in the world, after two and half weeks of not seeing each other or even speaking, really, would he send me this message? My blood began to run a little hot at the thought of him shacking up with his other family all weekend, trying to brush me aside with the cover of a business trip. I didn't even bother answering, but placed my phone on the table as my drink was delivered.