The Woman At The Door by Daniel Hurst (books successful people read .TXT) 📕

maybe it was just because she was sick of all the fighting, but she told me that she needed a break.

She told me that she didn’t want me to stay at home tonight.

That was hard to hear, and it was even harder when she moved away from me as I tried to console her and change her mind. But Rebecca was adamant. She needed some space to think. She needed time to do that thinking.

Basically, she needed me out.

What choice did I have? Stand and continue a drunken argument outside a restaurant or listen to what she wanted and go home and get my toothbrush. I decided to do the latter, and that’s why I’m now sitting here, in this rubbish hotel room that I have been forced to book for the night so my wife can have that space and time that she needs. I haven’t brought much with me because I’m hoping this will be the only night that I have to stay here, but I guess I’ll find out about that in the morning. Of course, I could have gone to a friend’s place, but that would have meant having to explain to them why my wife wasn’t letting me stay in her bed at the moment, and I couldn’t be doing with that. This is between the two of us. That’s why I regret that Ally and Phil know all about our troubles now. But it’s too late to put that cat back in the bag as far as they are concerned.

I don’t know if Rebecca went and finished the meal with her best friend or not because I just left the restaurant and went home, throwing a few things into a bag and then taking a taxi to the nearest hotel. Now I’m lying on my rented bed for the night, sipping from a can of warm lager that I picked up down in the hotel bar just before they closed for the night. I should go to sleep, or at least stop drinking and start sobering up so I’m ready for tomorrow, but right now, all I want to do is keep drowning my sorrows.

I grimace at the warm alcohol as it slips down my throat and wish that it was ice-cold like it was meant to be consumed, but I’m wishing for a lot of things recently, and none of them are coming true. I wish that Rebecca believed me. I wish that I was still at home. I wish I knew why there had been lipstick on my shirt collar. And I wish that I knew who that woman at the door was and why she had planted that seed of doubt in my wife’s mind.

That’s when I remember that I haven’t checked my personal emails for a while, so I don’t know if that PI has got back to me yet. Opening up the app on my phone, I keep sipping my sickly drink as my new emails pop up.

That’s when I see it.

The private investigator has replied.

I still don’t know if this person is a man or a woman, but that doesn’t matter right now. All that matters is that they are willing to meet me to see if they can help me. They ask for a suitable time for this meeting to take place. Can I do midday tomorrow at the cafe on Harvey Street?

I look around the pokey hotel room and at the small pile of my belongings that I took from my house. I hardly have much else going on in my life, do I? That’s why I quickly email back and tell the PI that noon tomorrow is fine.

Then I finish my can of warm lager, but I decide not to open the second one.

I’m going to try and get some sleep. I now have a big day tomorrow.

Not only am I going to have to try and get back into my house and fight for my marriage, but I’m also meeting the person who might be able to prove my innocence.

I really hope this PI is as good as their website says they are.

I really hope they can help me find out who that woman at the door was.

20

THE WOMAN

The most important thing that enables me to keep doing what I’m doing is that people never find out who I really am. I use a fake name with all my clients, as well as regularly dye my hair different colours and wear all sorts of different types of clothing, so I’m not recognised or remembered. I also make sure that I work all over the country and not just in one area, increasing my chances of continuing to go undetected.

I don’t believe that what I do is illegal. Knocking on a door and telling a lie isn’t a crime as far as I know, but I’d rather not have to find out for sure. That’s why I need to make sure I avoid any uncomfortable conversations with police officers who might be responding to reports of a woman going around ruining people’s marriages.

But it’s not just the police that I’m worried about. It’s the targets themselves. Those husbands and wives who I am toying with for the benefit of my clients. I don’t want to ever come face to face with any of them after that first night when I have paid them a visit. I have the element of surprise on my side when I first knock on their door, and that is what allows me to say my piece and leave before they have a chance to do anything. But if I was to see them again then they would be more prepared, and I can’t be having that.

I have no idea what some of those people would do if they got the chance.

Angry husbands or wives, people who had done nothing wrong but had lost their partners thanks to me and my lies. They may get violent with me. They may even