“Friday afternoon?” she says.
“Think back, hon,” I say. “Try real, real hard to recall what you were doing at around four or five o’clock, day before yesterday?”
“I don’t remember,” she whispers.
“Hmm. Well, might I refresh your recollection?” I say, using one of Tyson’s favorite legal phrases. “You were with him on Friday afternoon, weren’t you?” I point at Grady without looking his way.
Munich stares at me, furiously blinking back tears.
“Yes. We were together,” Grady cuts in. “But nothing happened. Berlin just came over to help me with something.”
“Oh. I see,” I say, nodding. “What was she helping you with?”
“She was consulting on a gift. For Hannah. Berlin is very good at that stuff.”
“Hmm,” I say, holding his gaze a beat before pulling out my phone and staring down at it. “Well, from the looks of this little video, she seems to be pretty good at some other things, too.”
“Video?” Munich says. “What video?”
“The video of you in Grady’s bed. Would you like to see it? The videography is ah-maz-ing,” I say with a chef’s kiss.
“Fuck,” Grady says under his breath as Munich sobs that she didn’t “mean to do it.”
“You didn’t mean to do it? How does that work, exactly? Were you air-dropped into his bedroom? Right onto his dick?”
“I’m sorry,” Munich sobs, mascara pooling under her eyes and streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry.”
“So you knew he had a fiancée?” I ask her, not letting up.
“I did, but he said things weren’t going well,” she sobs.
“I didn’t say that—” Grady says, turning on his co-defendant.
“Yes, you did, Grady!” she says.
“Well, the good news is—he’s all yours now! Hannah doesn’t want him anymore.”
They both stare at me.
“So now that that’s settled, let’s get down to some more business, shall we?” I roll up my sleeves for effect.
Grady nods, savvy enough to understand that the jig is up, while Munich continues to cry. I ignore her, staring into Grady’s cowardly eyes.
“So. Here’s what I’m thinking,” I say, rubbing my palms together. “Grady, I want you to go home, look around, and calculate the value of everything Hannah has either purchased or contributed to. Obviously, the big stuff, like furniture and rugs. But the little stuff, too. I don’t care if it’s a pot or a pan or a stick of deodorant. Add it allll up. Got it?”
“Got it,” he says through clenched teeth.
“Great! Feel free to add an idiot tax to that. And a commission for Hannah’s interior design services. Twenty percent. Maybe thirty?”
He nods as I shift my gaze to Munich.
“As for you,” I say, my voice dripping with disdain, “I want you off Instagram. And all social media.”
She stares at me, horror-stricken. It’s clearly a punishment worse than death.
“I don’t want Hannah—or anyone in Hannah’s orbit—to have to see your sorry face. Are we clear?”
She nods, then wipes her nose with her napkin.
“What about the video?” Grady asks.
“What about it?” I say, putting my phone back into my purse.
“Who else has it?”
“Oh. Don’t worry about that,” I say. “You two act right, and it will be deleted.”
“Act right?” he asks with a flash of anger in his eyes. “Are you threatening us? Because that sure sounds like a threat—”
“Of course not. I’d never threaten anyone,” I say with a smile. “I’m simply giving you a small incentive to do the right thing.”
“How long do I have to stay off of social media?” Munich asks.
“Hmm. How about forever? Does forever work?”
“But social media is my livelihood—”
I resist the urge to tell her she should have thought about that before she fucked my best friend’s fiancé. Instead, I say, “That’s for you to decide. A week? A month? It’s entirely up to you. Use your judgment. Your fantastic judgment.”
