“Everything is fine, Lenora,” I assure her. When clients don’t hear from me, they assume I’ve vanished, along with their money. It’s a risk they take. “I did run into a snag with our original plan, so I had to improvise.”

“Oh.” Her voice drops an octave with her relief. “So everything is still happening.”

“Of course.” I crane my neck as I keep watch of the warehouse. “You’ll hear from me again once it’s done.”

“Wait—”

“What is it?” I’m anxious to get off the line. I don’t like talking over the phone for long periods. Also, I might need to check on Alex; make sure he’s not strung up on a meat hook.

“I found something…”

The unsure waver of her voice captures my full attention, and I turn my back to the warehouse. “What did you find, Lenora?”

“I wasn’t snooping,” she says, trying to convince me. “I was actually using Ericson’s tablet because my phone died…and it was just there. He leaves it out, knowing I have no reason to spy. I always do what you say. Never let on that I suspect him of anything.”

I nod a few times, mentally hurrying her along. “You don’t have to apologize for looking through your husband’s things. They’re your things, too.” I’ve never understood the big privacy deal in relationships. The understood rule carved in stone. I feel like it was an invention of men during the turn of the century, when women were coming into the workforce. A way to keep them complacent, ignorant. Because before then, there wasn’t a woman on the planet who didn’t have her privacy invaded by every man in her life.

The whole privacy thing is probably one of the reasons I don’t do relationships. I’m not interested in “sharing” my life. I’m content, and comfortable, with myself.

“Just tell me what you found,” I urge her, then soften my voice. “It’s all right.”

“I think… I mean, it could’ve been porn. Some amateur, raw footage…” She trails off, and I suspect where this is going. “Oh my, God. It was so violent. Torture. Force. The woman…she was pleading his name…for him to stop…”

I make out each word through her choked sobs. She’s obviously distraught, as I figured she would be should she ever discover her husband’s extra-repulsive-curricular activities.

“Lenora. Breathe.”

I’m not built for this. I didn’t want her to find out, but not because it would distress her. Selfishly, I didn’t want to be here, in this position, trying and failing to console this woman. I just wanted to punish the fucking son-of-a-bitch and collect the rest of my payment. Move on to the next job.