Free And One Last Thing... by Molly Harper

community?” I snorted. I opened the file folder with the e-mailed photos. “Besides, you can tell it’s Beebee, just look at this…”
    I sifted through the photos, tamping down the flare of rage ignited by seeing them again. But as I thumbed through, I realized that none of the pictures showed Beebee’s face. I gasped. How could I not have realized that I never saw her face?
    “Crap,” I moaned.
    “Exactly,” she said. “These pictures are more anatomical in nature.”
    There were no face shots.
    “He’s going to win, isn’t he?” I sat back, deflated. For the first time, I realized that as scared as I was, up until that moment I sincerely believed that I was going to come out of this unscathed. My marriage couldn’t be saved, obviously, but I honestly thought I would be able to emerge from this ordeal able to carry on a normal, productive, not-working-as-a-french-fry-technician life. I wasn’t aware I was even capable of that kind of optimism, so I wasn’t willing to let it die just yet. “Wait!” I snatched up one of the pictures. “Look! The bumblebee tattoo. Beebee has a bumblebee tattoo on her inner thigh. Can you subpoena her thigh?”
    “Not as part of the divorce action, but to defend you from the lawsuit, yes. We can ask for an inspection of her thighs as proof of identity,” Sam said, examining the photo. “That’s a good catch on the tattoo. Even if she tried to remove it before the suit goes to court, it would still show up.
    “But for now, do me a favor,” she said. “From this point on we need you to appear to be the brokenhearted discarded wife, not the angry, possibly crazy, woman scorned. Do not discuss the newsletter with large groups of people. If you see Mike or Beebee in public, do not cause an ugly scene. Do not call, e-mail, write letters to, or otherwise contact Mike or Beebee without contacting me first to see if it’s a good idea. When you do appear in public, try to look sort of, well, beaten and tragic.”
    “That shouldn’t be difficult, thank you.”
    “In fact, if you’re comfortable with therapy, you might start seeing a counselor,” she suggested. “It will help establish the psychological trauma Mike has inflicted on you. Since you obviously enjoy writing, it would also help if you started a journal to document your hellish, slow recovery from said trauma. How is your current financial situation? How are you getting by day to day?”
    I shrugged. “Actually, it’s okay. I don’t have a lot of living expenses. I’m staying with my parents, which I don’t think can last much longer. I’ll probably have to find an apartment soon. But I have a little savings cushion. If the case drags out, I have some investments I can cash in if I need to.”
    “I’ll be honest, you’re probably going to need to,” she told me, pinning me with those frank seawater eyes. “It all depends on how contentious negotiations are going to be. And I doubt Mike is going to be forthcoming or cooperative with us. I’ve had some cases that only took sixty days. Then again, I’m still involved in negotiating a canine custody agreement that has dragged a divorce settlement out for almost three years.”
    “Canine custody agreement?”
    “Both parties want sole custody of Bobo the Pomeranian. Lacey, I can’t say that your literary aspirations are going to help us in court because some judges around here are pretty old school. But I have to tell you, I thought it took a huge pair of Spaldings. A lot of the people who come through that door are just so caught up in being a victim that they can’t see straight. It’s part of the job, but it’s pretty damned annoying. It’s refreshing to meet someone who’s not helpless. You are not what I expected.”
    “You’re not what I expected either, Ms. Shackleton.” I rose and shook her hand.
    “i you need anything, you call me.”
    “By that, do you mean, ‘It’s eleven p.m. and I just need to talk’ or ‘It’s three am.