Final Draft by Shelley Burbank

Prologue

In her line of work, private investigator Olivia Lively often found it easiest to hide in plain sight.

Tonight she chose a shoulder-length, ash-blonde wig to cover her dark-brunette pixie cut, lightened her olive skin with foundation, and slicked on some sheer pink gloss rather than her signature classic red lipstick. A pink mini skirt, striped sweater, and black combat boots dropped her ageby ten years, from thirty to twenty. Just before leaving her Munjoy Hill apartment, she slid into a tattered black raincoat she’d picked up at Goodwill the previous week.

A short cab ride to the Old Port later, Liv slouched over the bar at El Gordito Burrito and nursed a disgustingly-sweet strawberry margarita. Next to her, a group of art-school students carried on a boisterous conversation. She smiled when the kids laughed, leaned closer to them whenever the door opened. Anyone glancing her way would think she was part of the crowd.

Sure enough, at 7:13 p.m., he entered the restaurant. Robert Mickelson. Her target.

Also, her former client.

And, even worse,her not-quite-divorcedboyfriend.

He’d called that afternoon to tell her he was going out of town for work, so he couldn’t meet for their regular Wednesday evening rendevouz. “Sorry, babe,” he said. “I have a seven o’clock flight from the Jetport. You know how it is.”

She’d heard the lie in his voice and known he wasn’t embarking on one of his frequent business trips. He was spending the evening with someone else. His soon-to-be ex-wife, Gina, maybe, or more likely, another other woman.

Following a hunch, Liv figured he’d show up at El Gordito. He liked the mezcal drinks they served and the dark table in the corner perfect for shadowy kisses, warm hands sliding up short skirts, and naughty whispers.

She ought to know. She’d been there with him often enough.

Her intuition proved accurate. Liv sipped her drink as Rob guided a pretty, young blonde to the expected back table. She made a face as the sweetness hit the back of her throat and Rob bent to kiss the woman’s cheek in a practiced move Liv knew all too well.

The blonde looked to be twenty-two, twenty-five at the most. Liv’s dark mood deepened. She had the worst taste in men. Always had. Rob Mickelson was just the latest in a long series of mistakes. Any guy who cheated on his wife would also cheat on his girlfriend. At her age, she should have known better than to be that girlfriend.

That he was a client made it even worse. He’d told her he was filing for divorce, but still. Mixing business and pleasure was dumb, not to mention borderline unethical.

The worst part was she’d developed actual feelings for the jerk. Maybe not love, but something close. When weeks turned into months and Rob still didn’t leave Gina, Liv should have ended it. She’d held out, though, hoping his divorce would make it all “okay” in the end.

She’d been fooling herself. The realization hit her like a salty, bone-chilling Atlantic wave. Whatever Rob had wanted from her, it wasn’t meaningful or exclusive or special. It was simply sleazy.

She needed to end it.

Tonight.

Liv pulled out her phone, snapped a few photos of the couple snuggling close together in the booth. She ordered another marg, regular this time with a salted edge, and waited. When they left, she followed them at a discreet distance to The Cormorant on Congress Street, the elegant hotel where she and Rob had spent so many clandestine evenings. In the lobby, all spiky gold and crystal chandeliers overhead, muted gray and mauve banquette seats, and Scalamandre wall-coverings, Liv took more photos of Rob and the blonde kissing in front of the elevators.

Liv allowed herself a grim smile. Gina might find the pics interesting. She’d send them tomorrow. At least then Rob’s wife would have some ammunition with which to fight back if—big if—Rob filed for divorce. As far as revenge schemes went, it was pretty weak, but Liv wouldn’t lower herself to something like slashing his tires.

Anything else she could think of would land her in prison.

When Rob and the girl stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut, Liv watched the indicator light. Third floor. Their floor.

Liv’s eyebrows drew together beneath the short bangs of her wig. Probably booked their usual room, too, she thought. She’d expected him to be a bit more original, but so far, everything about this evening made her feel interchangeable, unremarkable, and cheap.

She despised him for it, yes, but at the moment, she despised herself even more.

Stalking to the front desk, Liv disguised her feelings with an impersonal smile. “Good evening. I’d like a bottle of Veuve Clicquot sent to room 312, please.” She dug into her handbag and held out a credit card. “Can you include a note? Have it say, ‘Enjoy your evening. We’re done.’ Sign it Liv. L.I.V. Okay?”

The woman behind the desk tapped her computer keyboard, inspected the card, ran it, and handed it back. “There you are, Ms. Lively. I’ll have that sent right up.”

“Thank you. Have a good night.” Liv stepped out onto a drizzle-soaked sidewalk and decided to walk home despite the fog that had rolled in off Casco Bay. The cold, damp air would help clear her head. God knew she needed it.

Halfway home, her phone vibrated in her hand. She looked down at the screen. Rob.

She reached up to adjust her wig and let the call go to voicemail. When the screen went dark, she slipped the phone into her handbag. She shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her raincoat, walked the cold, wet streets past the Longfellow statue in Monument Square, the hulking edifice of the downtown Portland Fire Station, shadowy Lincoln Park, and the Observatory not far from her apartment overlooking the city. Reaching home, she vowed never to see or speak to Robert Mickelson again. So. Totally. Done.