2 Double Dip by Gretchen Archer Read Free Book Online

muffled outrage escaped. “You need to leave immediately!” One of her arms shot out from the many fluffy duvets and I caught a glimpse of fur flying as she scooped her rat-dogs under the covers and away from my germs.
    Ha ha.
    “Just one thing, then I’ll go,” I said.
    “Make it quick,” the pillow said.
    “Why did you shoot Peyton?”
    The pillow came down. “Because Richard is sleeping with her.”

    *     *     *

    One of the two elevators inside the Sanders’ residence went directly to a hallway behind Mr. Sanders’ office. And by directly, I mean in a hurry. Like a bomb. When it came to a stop (three seconds later), I found myself contemplating my lifelong adultery theory. Be it lack of opportunity, libido, or pulse, I’ve held fast to the belief that there was a slice of the male population pie immune to cheating. With each passing birthday, Democrat, and marriage (of mine), the slice has thinned. With this news, it may be gone.
    In spite of my opinion that he has every reason to, there was no evidence of Mr. Sanders being unfaithful to his wife. There’s never been a whiff, hint, or trace. I found it hard to swallow that he’d start now, and in his own home.
    But I’ve been wrong before, and in my own home.
    My father could make anything work, even being married to my mother. The parts of their lives that aren’t perfect are her fault. Because he is. (Perfect.) Like any other family, though, we’d had our share of dysfunction. Sadly, most of that can be chalked up to me; I’ve had a few bumpy years/divorces.
    I remember very little of middle school—the childbirth movie, pre-algebra, the 8 th grade trip to Six Flags—but one thing our family never talks about-slash-will never forget is the two-year chill that settled in our home after Daddy returned from a week of hostage-negotiating training in Montgomery, as if anyone in Pine Apple would ever take anyone else hostage. At the time, I paid very little attention. I was busy twirling my baton. And I’d all but forgotten it until a few years ago, when Mother and Daddy were at odds as to how to repair the toll the tanking economy had taken on their 401K, and Mother went behind Daddy’s back, moving the money without his blessing. It got ugly. Meredith said, “This will be worse than the time Mother caught Daddy with that hostage-training woman in Montgomery if they don’t get this worked out soon.”
    I walked around without blinking for a week.
    From behind Mr. Sanders’ office, I regained a little of my equilibrium as I made my way to a second elevator ride that would take me to the Bellissimo lobby. From the lobby, I wove my way through the casino and from there, I took a steep escalator ride to the convention level. And by steep, I mean straight up. Like a missile.
    The real question, though, was this: Would Bradley Cole ever cheat on me?
    I made it inside the door just in time for Round Two of the Mystery Shopper slot throwdown. A lady with sliver hoop earrings as big as bicycle tires checked me in and passed me a slip of paper. I barely perched on the edge of a chair before I heard Matthew Thatcher call out from behind his microphone. “Where’s number sixteen? Number sixteen! You have less than a minute to get to your slot machine!” I looked at the slip of paper in my hand. Sixteen.
    I shot up and the lights went out.

    *     *     *

    “You what ?” Fantasy asked. “You fainted ?”
    “Yes,” I said. “I passed out cold.”
    “You stood up, then went down.”
    “That’s what happened.”
    “And this was last night?”
    “Round two of the tournament. On my way to round two.”
    It was too early Sunday morning. Weekends meant nothing around here.
    “So the old lady who lives in a church is still on the loose?”
    “I never saw her.”
    “She won.” No Hair came barreling into Mr. Sanders’ sunny office, our appointed meeting place. Around his neck, a noose. His tie was a noose. The hang someone kind. In all my