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.”