Surveillance at the Sunset

The pool at the Château Marmont was empty, save for Marcus and the woman in the white bikini reading near the shallow end. He'd been coming here every Tuesday for three weeks, watching the hotel where his wife's lawyer said she was staying.

Marcus hated being a spy in his own marriage. He swirled the wilted spinach salad the waitress had brought—room service, charged to room 317, his wife's room—and thought about how they'd once fought over who made dinner better. Now she was three weeks gone from their twelve-year marriage, and he was reduced to this.

His iPhone buzzed on the table. Another notification from the divorce attorney. He ignored it.

"You're going to stare at that spinach all day or actually eat it?"

Marcus looked up. The woman in the white bikini had moved to the chair beside his. She was maybe thirty, with calculating eyes and a smile that didn't reach them.

"I'm Marcus," he said, surprised he was speaking.

"I know who you are, Marcus. She hired me."

The water in the pool caught the afternoon light, throwing fractured reflections across them. "You're the private investigator."

"Process server, actually." She reached into her bag and placed an envelope on the table. "You've been served. She's not here. She left the hotel last week. Moved to Portland."

Marcus stared at the envelope. Three weeks of sitting by this pool, playing detective, and she was already gone. The absurdity of it hit him like a physical blow.

"Why didn't you serve me earlier?"

"She said to let you have your closure. Whatever that means." The woman stood up. "I'd eat the spinach if I were you. You look like you haven't slept in days."

Marcus watched her walk away, the envelope sitting between his untouched salad and his phone. The water in the pool rippled in the breeze, catching light in shifting patterns. He picked up his fork and took a bite of the cold, wilted spinach, and for the first time in three weeks, something finally tasted real.