Scandals of an Invisible Girl (Love & Magic Book 3)

Chapter One: doin' something unholy

I'm out of Doritos. And as I have no idea how many more hours I'll stay huddled beneath this window staring out at the darkened London street, I need copious amounts of junk food to get me through it. My camera is perched ready at my side. The only light in this room is coming from the harsh glow of the streetlight outside. It bathes the space in bluish shadows, turns the harmless objects of the room into threats. I lick my fingers for lingering cheesy dust, glancing around at the junk food wrapper massacre around me. I feel disgusting, but I don't care. I'd raided the stash under the teenage boys' bed, as I usually did when a job that took me to this street. The family has a tendency to enjoy their weekends in the south of France, leaving the hustle and bustle of London behind. Unaware of the invisible girl who likes to sneak in, set up camp in the eldest son's bedroom so she can spy on the house across the street whilst indulging on his secret stash of junk food.

Other than the wealth displayed here, which to most is alien, this is a normal street. Rows of white townhouses with copper doorknockers, neat pavements and old-fashioned street lamps. A street for London's wealthiest families and, as it happens, one of its most secret men's clubs. I'd been working for a private investigation agency for a few years now. Not exactly the dream job of a girl who wanted to be a songwriter, but the perfect one for someone with the power to be unseen. To slip into any building, business, and situation unnoticed is a gift. So I take little credit for my success rate, but I'm in demand and that's a good thing for someone with more debt than cash in the bank.

For the most part, my jobs involves following cheating partners—the rich and famous kind. And the ones with the most to lose are also the best at staying hidden. Today wasn't any different. Colm Strathmore was my mark. And my favourite kind - the total, utter hypocrite kind. People are flawed, relationships are hard, and people make mistakes. But some people present one face to the world, keeping their dark secrets and hypocrisies hidden behind the mask of righteousness. So when Abigail Strathmore, Colm's wife of thirty years, had strolled into the office of 'Holden Investigations', it had been an easy yes. Strathmore was an MP who prided himself on family values. On the sanctity of marriage. He was also a man who started cheating on his wife whilst the ink was still drying on his marriage certificate. Abigail had stayed with him, wanted to keep their family of three children together. And for decades she ignored the philandering, the rumours and the whispers. But then a few weeks ago he crossed a line, and she'd had enough.

I check the time; it was the early hours now. I doubt I'd get home before sunrise, but that was normal. Not good, but normal. I send a quick message, stare at the dots as Mary composes her response.

Naturally we're wasting away without your supervision. We're fine. Go away.

I giggle, rolling my eyes as I slip my phone back into my pocket. The always background noise of worry and guilt sated for a moment. But it never stayed away long.

A black car pulls onto the road, it's slows when it reaches the house across the street, and pulls into its underground garage, which winds up automatically at its arrival. The car is as anonymous as it gets, but I recognise the plate. It belongs to Strathmore's driver. Quickly, I tidy up the space. Not that mess in a teenage boys' room would gather much attention, but breaking and entering is rude enough — leaving a mess is just bad manners. Then I slip my camera into my back pocket and head over.

***

The Number Thirteen isn't a real men's club, it's simply a townhouse used by the rich and powerful to hide their misdemeanours, organised by a group of bankers and politicians who saw a gap in the market for a playpen for adulterers and those with tastes they'd rather keep hidden. I've been here before. I know the layout and I know it's well secured and guarded. But it's easy enough for a transparent girl to climb over the fence at the back and slip through an open window in the kitchen. The sound of clanking glasses and obnoxious laughter is ear-shattering as I move from the innocent-looking downstairs to the floors above—the ones designed to be silent and unseen to people on the street by the custom windows.

The rooms and hallways are all lavishly decorated, with all the excessively bad style of those with more wealth than taste. The rooms are darkly lit, with only lamps lighting the space in a hazy glow. I recognise some of the people - I always do. I'm not much for celebrity gossip, but I recognise a runner-up from a reality dating show and an upcoming politician with a young guy and young woman perched on either knee. A former prime minster, pearls gleaming in the faint light, her hands all over the body of a former aide.

I keep searching. Room after room of the rich and powerful, their entitled gazes and fingers and mouths all over the young and beautiful, those who are either foolish or desperate. I struggle to imagine what some of these shiny, glamorous people see in these older dead-eyed statesmen. I squeeze through corridors packed with politicians and bankers and lawyers, their bodies pressed tightly together. Sometimes they feel me, their eyes glance around in confusion, feeling the shift in the air, or maybe my scent. Their senses telling them something their eyes can't back up. They drift back to their girls, or their drinks, or drugs. I ignore the whirl in my stomach. These places always make me feel dirty. And a weighted sadness that I try to push down, ignore.

Colm is in the library at the top of the house. It's a room adorned with dark sofas, and mahogany bookcases filled with first editions bound in leather. He sits in the back, hidden by shadows. A few more men gather around on chairs and sofas nearby, laughing at their own importance. I stop when I see them, the smell of cigar smoke and Macallan churning my stomach. I lift my camera, exhaling with disappointment. I'm not sure why it still gets to me. There is always a part of me that's wants the people I hunt to better. And I'm always disappointed. Every time.

Nia, Abigail's niece, giggles as she's perched on Colm's lap. Her waist length dark blonde hair trailing down her back, her curvy frame and tall stature an ill fit for his short, plump body. She throws back her head, laughing as he whispers something in her ear. I wait for the moment. And then he gives me exactly what I need - he leans down to kiss her neck, his saliva clinging to her throat. I take the photo. No flash. My camera as invisible as I am.

Abigail had turned a blind eye to his cheating, even when the girls stayed the same age and he grew older. Even when they became younger than his daughters. She had a good life, in so many ways, and it was easier than starting again.

Then he decided to fuck her niece. And that was it.

I take a few more for backup and then head out. I don't stop to linger. Ignoring the growing smells of booze and sex and smoke. My head pounds and my stomach heaves.

But it's a job well done. Even if everything about it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.