Now then, though I did believe Lucy, Arthur was another matter entirely. Him I did not believe. Did he love Lucy? Perhaps. Did he really think Lucy was cheating? That I hadn’t a clue. But why press the matter so much if he didn’t believe it in the first place? And why hire me to uncover something that was, in theory, uncoverable?
“Hey, Ma,” I said.
I tended to call my mother when I was either depressed, confused, or in general need of help. Usually, it was more andthan or. Meaning, I had a mean case of all three and I needed a big, heaping spoonful of Mommy.
“What’s wrong now?”
Mom wasn’t maternal so much as pit-bossy. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
I heard the sigh from across the line. “Because it’s the middle of the day and I didn’t call you first.”
“Can’t I just call to say I love you?”
“Why start now?”