She walked casually, as to not draw attention to herself. With her hair pulled up in a bun, her pencil skirt smoothed and professional, she looked like every other plane Jane in the office building. Ms. Heart pulled out her phone, quickly using the reflection to check if anyone was following her; the coast was clear. She took the stairs two steps at a time, racing towards the office of a Mr. Thomas Dean. It was six o’clock and most everyone was cleared out for the day, but it would be another hour before the building closed for the night. With gloved hands she opened the door to his office, her heart beating fast, and slipped into the small room. Ms. Heart stood for a second, her eyes slowly adjusting to the dim light in his dingy office. She could smell the faint odor of the noodles he inevitably had for lunch, and she took in his cluttered desktop and the papers stacked unkemptly around the shoe-box of an office. She took a careful step towards his desk, avoiding loose papers and numerous plastic cups, and with a quick motion turned on his computer. As Ms. Heart waited for the computer to turn on she craned her head and observed the sparse decorations in his office; a certificate from a school in Germany, the same private investigator school she had attended, and an amateur painting of a quaint house surrounded by snowy mountains. Behind her, the screen beeped to life and she cursed under her breath for forgetting to turn off the sound. The janitors would be here in thirty minutes, she estimated, and she gave herself twenty-five to search and get out. Gloves still hugging her fingertips, she clicked through numerous files; finally, she found the one she was searching for. “Ms. Heart” it read, but as she prepared to read the file, the computer demanded a password. She knew from experience that private investigators used the names of their clients as the pass-code for their file in order to remember which client ordered the search on whom. So, she thought, who ordered Mr. Dean to investigate me? Minutes ticked by, she only had one chance to get this right before the computer would alert Mr. Dean that someone was attempting to read his files. With a flick of her wrist she typed in the only name she could think of; Heart. Her soon-to-be husband was as paranoid as they come, always looking over his shoulder and thinking that someone was conspiring against him. She looked at the screen, begging that it wouldn’t be him, but a second later she got her answer.

It was a match.