I’d left Mirabelle’s at the same time Stacy had. Once again, she’d said she’d email me the file and once again I thanked her. Then she headed toward the subway and I slipped into the back of the Maybach. My hands were sweaty as I fastened my seat belt, but my heart was also beating with anticipation. It didn’t escape me that I was reacting like an addict getting her first fix in months. And wasn’t that exactly what I was doing? The romantic obsessive girl about to indulge in compulsive snooping? It was only Jordan and me in the car—Reynold had the afternoon off—and I’d intended to go back to the club for a while after Mira’s. But I knew I’d be too consumed with the video to work. And watching it in a private location seemed like the best move. Four p.m. on Monday in NYC, though, is rush hour. Getting from Greenwich Village to Uptown was a nightmare. I busied myself with trying to figure out how to set my email up on my phone—why hadn’t I thought that was a good idea before now?
