My Husband Wants To Kill Me

Chapter 6 The Lady in Her Underwear

On the back of the card was a rough sketch of a map, with Marriot Plaza marked at the bottom left corner. It didn't look too far away!

But as I followed the GPS directions and reached the area, I was stunned by the sight of run-down buildings in front of me. Was this really what the heart of LA's business district should look like?

Following the address on the card, I found a four-story, dirt-colored row house. The facade was cluttered with crooked signs, one of which was teetering, threatening to fall at any moment. I hurried a few steps to find the right door number, feeling anxious as I stepped into the pitch-black stairwell.

The hallway reeked of stale smoke and something that smelled like animal urine. Grimacing, I pinched my nose and cautiously moved forward. Suddenly, a teenager with dreadlocks came barreling down the stairs, nearly causing me to trip in fright.

Spotting the door labeled 102, I cleared my throat and called out, "Is anyone there?" There was no response. I knocked again, but still nothing.

I tried the doorknob, and to my surprise, it turned—the door opened!

No one was in the outer room. The windows were covered in years of grime, making the room dim. Just then, I heard a woman's moan from the inner room. Curiosity got the best of me, and I tiptoed inside.

Two half-dressed people were entwined on the couch. The man's pants were down to his knees, and the woman's skirt was hiked up, her black-stockinged legs flailing in the air. A can on the coffee table was kicked over, rolling noisily across the floor.

Witnessing this spicy scene, my first instinct was to run.

But as I tried to retreat, I accidentally kicked an empty vodka bottle. The woman looked up in shock, and screamed at the sight of me. Both of them tumbled off the couch in a clumsy mess. The woman scrambled to find her underwear, while the man leisurely pulled up his pants, buckled his belt, and smoothed his disheveled hair.

I had to speak up.

"Is Mr. James Connolly here?"

"That's me," he replied.

The woman, now in her underwear, bolted for the door.

"Mrs. Smith, I'll send the business report later! Goodbye!" he called after her, even waving as she fled.

"Please, have a seat, beautiful lady." His breath reeked of alcohol!

Instinctively, I covered my nose. The tall, disheveled man took two steps towards me. I tightened my grip on my handbag and retreated toward the door. "Uh, I might have the wrong person. Sorry to bother you."

I was about to make a quick exit when he grabbed my wrist.

A wave of fear washed over me, and I instinctively kicked towards his groin. He dodged nimbly, standing a few steps away from me.

"Calm down, miss, calm down. I won't come any closer, no need to be scared. What you just saw... uh..." He hiccuped, a wave of foul-smelling alcohol wafting out, "was just a personal moment, but don't let that make you doubt my excellent detective services."

A wave of nausea hit my chest, and I quickly took a few steps back.

"I think... I might not need your services after all. Thank you!"

Now, it was my turn to bolt for the door. Damn it, I regretted trusting a random flyer I picked up! Forget about tracking evidence for a divorce—I don't want to risk my life here! I don't want to end up raped and murdered! Damn, I'm such a foolish rich girl!

*****

Just as I stepped out of the inner room, I heard a low, firm voice behind me, as if the man had suddenly become someone else.

"I shouldn't call you miss, but madam. The diamond on your wedding ring is at least ten carats—if I may say, wearing a rock like that around here isn't safe."

I froze in place and turned around timidly. He was smirking, strolling over to me.

"Your nails are pale and uneven—bitten down, I assume? You chew your nails when you're anxious? And it's been a while since you had a manicure, hasn't it? Six months? Is your husband cheating on you? Having an affair? You're exhausted, barely functioning, can't sleep, can't eat? And," he reached out and plucked a hair from my head, making me wince.

"It's been at least six months since your last dye job. A woman like you neglecting her hair? There's only one reason for that... you were pregnant." He glanced at my flat stomach. "And then you lost the baby?"

For a moment, my heart seemed to stop beating.

He flashed a wicked grin. "Did I hit the nail on the head?"

In that moment, I was utterly speechless. It wasn’t just his deduction that stunned me—it was the audacity with which he exposed all my deepest wounds, showing no empathy or basic decency, and then had the gall to be smug about it. What kind of person does that?

I wanted to slap him, but another part of me, the logical part, whispered, "He's exactly the help you need!"

"Madam, can we have a proper conversation now?"

I licked my dry lips lightly. "Alright. Tell me, what can you do?"

"First, why are you here? Gathering evidence, right?"

I nodded.

"Gathering evidence is just the first step. What we're really after is revenge! Right?"

My eyes widened. How did this stranger know my darkest thoughts?

"I can not only help you gather evidence to make sure that scumbag doesn't get a dime in the divorce, but I can also help you strategize to ensure they both end up miserable!"

I had to admit that his every word hit home.

"Alright, I'll admit I need you... but first, could you please clean yourself up? I can't stand being here."

I sat impatiently in the car, waiting. Suddenly, a clean-shaven man with neatly combed hair opened the car door, startling me. "Let me introduce myself: James Connolly, former LAPD detective."