The person she found was a man named Marcus Webb. His voice was low and steady, with the faintest hint of a Southern drawl.
He didn’t waste words.
“What do you want to know about Ms. Lawson?” he asked.
“Everything,” I said. “Where she grew up. Who her parents are.”
“How she met Derek. Whether she’s who she says she is.”
“You’re thinking she targeted your husband.”
“I’m thinking,” I said slowly, “that Eleanor has been complaining about the lack of grandchildren in every society magazine for years.”
“If I were a young, ambitious woman with a flexible moral compass, that would look like an opportunity.”
“And the children?”
“I want to know if they’re actually Derek’s,” I said. The words tasted bitter.
“Because if they’re not, Eleanor just restructured her entire world around a lie.”
“Understood,” he said. “My fee is—”
“I don’t care,” I cut in. “I have seven hundred thousand reasons not to care about cost.”
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “All right.”
The first report came a month later.
I opened Marcus’s email in a café near my office. My hands trembled slightly as I scrolled through the attached PDF.
“Amber Lawson is not what she appears to be,” Marcus had written in his summary.
She’d grown up in a small town in Oklahoma. Nowhere near the polished sophistication she projected.
Her father had a string of failed businesses and a gambling problem.
Amber herself had bounced between community college and odd jobs. Reinventing herself in each new social circle.
She had no formal training in event planning. The title on her LinkedIn was largely self-assigned.
Based on a handful of charity galas where she’d volunteered and then parlayed the photos into an online portfolio.
The Con Artist Revealed
“What she does have,” Marcus wrote, “is an impressive talent for reading people.”
He’d traced her social media back two years. She’d followed every major Houston family online.
Studied their habits. Learned which charities they favored, which restaurants they frequented.
She’d attended three charity events in the six months before she “randomly” met Derek. Each one chosen specifically because the Mitchells were sponsoring them.
“She researched him,” Marcus said when we spoke later. “Found out his routines.”
“His clubs. His favorite scotch. She learned about your fertility treatments from an article quoting Eleanor.”
“Then made sure to be sympathetic when she and Derek started spending time together.”
My stomach knotted. “She knew, before she met him, that I couldn’t get pregnant easily.”
“She knew,” Marcus said, “that Eleanor was publicly obsessed with grandchildren.”
“That there was a vulnerable man stuck between a demanding mother and a wife going through medical hell.”
“And she moved in like a shark scenting blood.”
There were photos attached to the report. Grainy shots of Amber entering and leaving expensive hotels.
Close-ups of her holding hands with a man who definitely wasn’t Derek.
A man I recognized.
“Victor,” I breathed.
Derek’s business partner. Victor Chin. The man who’d toasted our third anniversary.
The man who had clapped Derek on the back at the baby shower.
“Their affair predates her relationship with your husband,” Marcus said. “I’ve got hotel receipts going back two years.”
“Phone records. Photos.”
“So she was sleeping with Victor,” I said slowly, “while seducing Derek.”
“Seems that way.”
“Does Victor know she’s pregnant with twins everyone thinks are Derek’s?”
“Based on what I’ve seen?” Marcus said. “Yeah, I’d say he knows they’re his.”
“Jesus.”
I closed my eyes, head spinning.
“Can we prove it?” I asked after a moment.
“That they’re his, not Derek’s? Sure. I have a contact at a hospital lab in Houston.”
“When the babies are born, I can arrange a quiet comparison. Nothing official, nothing admissible in court.”
“But enough to tell you the truth.”
“Do it,” I said.
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