Truth

something special .
    The hair Sophia drew blew gently in the ocean breeze. Though the windows were shut, she felt the wind on her cheeks and smelled the salty air. The body she drew was presumably better than the one she concealed under her t-shirt and skirt, but not by much. She was slender, yet shapely. Her long legs often spent hours walking the beach or nature walks around Provincetown. Drawing her own breasts, Sophia’s thoughts filled with her husband and her nipples rose under the cotton shirt. Smirking, she drew the same reaction. Sophia reasoned -- if I were to walk naked on the beach, it would be cold .
    Dinner forgotten, the sound of her cellphone pulled her from her artistic trance. Beaming as her darkened hand reached for the small devise, she read Derek’s number and name. “Hello, Honey.”
    “ Hi, Baby, did I wake you?”
    Sophia laughed, “What do you think? I’m working on your something special .”
    Their call lasted only minutes. Shedis-tics had a car waiting to drive him to the hotel.
    “ They’re pulling out all the stops. I really think they want you,” Sophia said.
    “ We‘ll see what they say.”
    “ Derek?”
    “ Yes?”
    “ I know we haven’t talked about it. But, I know this may mean moving. I don’t care, as long as I’m with you.” Sophia heard her husband exhale.
    “ You don’t know how much that means. I won’t do anything without calling, I promise. I need to go. I love you, and I can’t wait to see my something special .”
    “ I love you too.” They hung-up.
     

 
     
    Things do not change. We change.
- Henry David Thoreau
     
    Chapter 5
     
    Phillip Roach, Private Investigator, contemplated his information; by triangulating cellphone towers near a Palo Alto, California, street he narrowed the origination of calls from a disposable cellphone making multiple calls to Emily Vandersol, Claire Nichols’ sister. The area contained restaurants, cafés, and residences; Phil didn’t know for sure it was Claire Nichols or if she called from one of the businesses or a residence. Nonetheless, his intuition told him, he was close.
    Phillip had useful associates possessing resources he didn’t. Undoubtedly, he’d be asked to fulfill favors in the future -- Quid pro quo. It was the way of his profession. With a client like Anthony Rawlings, there was no deal Phil wasn’t willing to make. Hell, he’d shake hands with the devil to continue this alliance.
    Forwarding the telephone number of the track phone and narrowing Ms. Nichols location to Palo Alto would momentarily pacify Mr. Rawlings. Phil composed his findings into a text message and promised more information in the future. He hit SEND .
     
    *****
     
    Claire’s GPS directed her to the heart of San Francisco’s financial district. Although the tall buildings and steep streets created a maze, the computerized voice navigated her to the two hundred block of California Street. “You have reached your destination.”
    Goosebumps, incited by the late March wind, rubbed against her smooth silk blouse as Claire walked from the parking garage toward her goal. Just south of Chinatown, the streets bustled with patrons. Yet, it wasn’t the people which momentarily held her attention but the picturesque scene. Down from the hills, a thick white blanket of fog covered the bay, penetrated only by the pillars of the Golden Gate Bridge. Since her release from prison, every view, every scene held wonder and awe. Claire vowed never again to take freedom for granted.
    Over the last two weeks she’d contemplated her presence. Although seemingly unimportant, one question she’d pondered was her clothing style. Her attire before her life with Tony --and during -- were worlds apart. Shopping for herself, her desires, wants, needs, and choices proved more difficult than she’d anticipated. Eventually, she concluded her taste fell somewhere in between. Shopping alone and with her money brought back the elation of finding great deals. Now, she enjoyed Mrs. Rawlings quality clothing at reasonable prices – she even perused sales racks. There was no question; intimate apparel was her favorite purchase. Claire now owned more pretty panty and bra combinations than one woman should have. She justified it as overdue, well-deserved, and three years’ worth.
    Today, personifying the professional, Claire donned wool slacks, a silk blouse, a complementary jacket, and heels (with white lace panties and bra no one would see – but made