Excerpt of Dirty Red by Tarryn Fisher

She looks the same. Raven hair hanging wildly to her waist. She looks almost gypsy-like in her teal linen pants and a cream sheath shirt that hangs casually off one defined shoulder. I eye her gold hoop earrings, which are big enough to fit my entire hand through. They make her look exotic and slightly dangerous. She has always made me feel plain.

Her eyes rove over the handful of occupants in the diner, searching for a face she recognizes: an old man, a couple who share the same side of a booth, two servers folding silverware into napkins … and me.

I see the shock overcome her features — the parting of her lips, the slight spreading of white around her irises. Suddenly, she stiffens. Her eyes chase to the four corners of the room, and I know she is looking for him. I shake my head to tell her he’s not here. I take a sip of my coffee and I wait.

She moves with purpose toward my table. When she reaches where I am sitting, she doesn’t sit but stares at me expectantly.

“An old client?” She says dryly.

“Well, I am, aren’t I?” I motion for her to sit. I’d sent an anonymous message to her office, claiming I was an old client in desperate legal trouble. I’d asked her to meet me at a diner named Tiffany’s. I had no idea if she’d come or not, but it was better than showing up at her office.

She slides cautiously into the seat across from me, never taking her eyes from my face.

“Well, what the fuck do you want?”

I flinch. Louboutins or not, she’s still the same crass piece of white trash she used to be.

“I thought maybe you could look over this document for me.” I reach into my purse and pull out the papers I’d stolen from Caleb’s filing cabinet. Placing them on the table, I slide them toward her.

“What is this?” she asks. She eyes me distastefully. How dare she look at me that way? She has singlehandedly ruined my life. I’d have everything if it weren’t for her devious, overreaching hands.

I’d probably also be in prison. I push that thought away. Now is not the time for gratitude. Now is the time for answers. I poke the document in front of her.

“Take a look. See for yourself.”

Without moving her head, she looks at the papers then back to me. It’s a smooth, hard, impressive piece of intimidation. The art of her body language is something to be admired.

“Why would I want to do that?” she says.

She’s making me feel chilled. I get a flashback of being on the witness stand, and my heart rate spikes. I practice to see if I can do it too.

“It’s Caleb’s,” I say, only moving my lips.

I don’t know whether it’s the mention of his name or if my imitation of her body language is working, but she tenses.

A server approaches our table. Olivia reaches for the papers.

“Get her a coffee, two creamers.” I say, waving him away. He hurries off. Olivia, who is reading, briefly glances up at me. I spent almost every day with her for nine months. I know what she likes.

I sip my coffee as she reads, watching her face.

Her coffee arrives. Without looking up, she pulls the lids from the creamers and dumps them into her cup.

She lifts the mug to her lips, but halfway there her hand freezes. Coffee spills onto the table as she slams the mug down. Abruptly, she stands up.

“Where did you get that?”

She is backing away from the table, shaking her head. “Why is my name on there?”

I run my tongue across my teeth. “I was hoping you could tell me that?”

She bolts for the door. I stand up, tossing a twenty on the table and go after her.

I follow her into the parking lot and corner her by the newspaper stand. “You are not getting out of explaining why your name is on this deed along with my husband’s!”

Her face is washed of color. She shakes her head. “I don’t know, Leah. He never — I don’t know.”

She covers her face with her palms, and I hear her sob. That only makes me angrier. I take a threatening step toward her.

“You’re sleeping with him, aren’t you?”

She pulls her hands away and glares at me.

“No. Of course not! I love my husband.” She is clearly insulted that I would even accuse her of such a thing.

“I love mine!” My voice cracks. “ — So, why does he love you?”

She looks at me with true loathing.

“He doesn’t,” she says simply. “He chose you.” It pains her to give me those words. I can see the emotion spilling from her skin.

I hold up the deed and shake it. “He bought you a house. Why did he buy you a fucking house?”

She snatches the deed from my fingers and points to a date. “Did you miss this little detail? Long before you, Leah.” She shoves it back at my chest. “But, you know that. So, why did you really trick me into coming here?”

I swallow — a nervous reaction. She sees it and smiles cruelly.

“I should have let them throw you in prison, you know that.”

She turns away, walking toward her car door. Her statement infuriates me. I follow her, digging my fingernails into my palms, I breathe through my nose.

“So you could have him?” I blurt. My blood pounds in my ears. I ask myself that question all the time. I say it again. “You should have lost the case so you could have him?”

She freezes, looks at me over her shoulder.

“Yeah.”

I didn’t expect the truth. It frightens me. I open my mouth — force the words out. “I thought you loved your husband.”

She blows air through her nose. The action reminds me of an agitated horse. Her eyes rove from my shoes and land in disgust on my face.

“I love yours too.”