Were any of Elizabeth Taylor’s lawyers still alive? They’d probably know.
Missy beamed at me. “Chad and I ran into each other, and he just looked so handsome, and we had a few drinks, and one thing led to another, and, well. You know.”
I did know. I wished I didn’t, but the memory of Missy’s sex tape was still alive and well and residing in the back of my brain, ready to assault me when I was least expecting it.
“Anyway,” Missy continued, “Chad put in a stellar performance, and afterwards he said that divorce was just so messy that he’d prefer we didn’t, and that we’re really the victims here because we’re both so incredibly attractive that it’s really hard for usnotto commit adultery. And then he said that the real villain in all of this is you lawyers, who are bleeding us dry with your fees. No offense.”
Full fucking offense taken, actually.
“I see,” I said.
“So you can just make it all stop, right?” Missy said, looking at me expectantly.
I stared at her. “Ms. Thurston-Wallace, you do understand that once divorce proceedings are started, there’s a considerable amount of paperwork involved in reversing that process?”
She waved a hand. “That’s your job. Can’t I just… sign?”
Missy and Chad really did deserve each other. I said, “I can’t actually do anything until Chad also instructs his lawyer. When is that likely to happen?”
Missy rolled her eyes. “Chad’s very busy, Miller. He can’t just go running off to his lawyer at the drop of a hat. But say, sometime this week?”
I took a deep, calming breath. “Let me go and get your file, and I’ll see where we are.”
Technically itwaspossible to reverse a divorce in Virginia, but it came down to what paperwork had been filed. Since Missy and Chad were still hashing out a settlement, I was pretty sure we’d be able to stop proceedings, but I wanted to be sure before I promised anything. And of course Marty hadn’t brought me the file.
I opened the door and stepped out, and my foot connected with something firm and round. A high-pitched yelp echoed through the office as I stumbled over Missy’s fucking pug that was lying sprawled across the office doorway.
Marty appeared around the corner, eyes wide, and rushed forward to scoop the dog up. “Oh my god, are you all right, Alexander Hamilton?” He cradled the pug in his arms, stroking it gently, and shot me a death glare. “I can’t believe you just kicked a dog, bro. That’s so harsh!”
“I didn’t kick him! I tripped. And weren’t you meant to be looking after him?”
Alexander Hamilton let out a loud whine, and Marty’s stare intensified.
Then Missy came rushing out. “What happened? Where’s my baby?” She grabbed the pug from Marty’s arms, running a hand down his spine and then checking all his paws, just in case one had fallen off or something, I guessed.
I opened my mouth to apologize, then closed it again. It would be just my luck that Missy would take an apology as an admission of guilt and sue me, probably with Marty representing her.
When in doubt, keep your mouth shut.
So I stayed quiet while Missy and Marty stood there fussing over the dog. Marty produced a dog chew from the pocket of his cargo shorts, which had Alexander making a miraculous recovery as he slobbered around the treat. “He seems fine,” Marty said dubiously.
Missy clutched the pug to her chest. “Alexander Hamilton and I are leaving before he’s assaulted again. Once you’ve undivorced me, you can deposit the funds to my account.”
I stared at her dumbly, my brain still caught up on being accused of assaulting her dog—and for the record, Ididfeel bad about kicking him. “Sorry, what funds?”
“The refund of my legal fees, obviously. I assume I’ll get that money back.”
This was, without a doubt, the most batshit crazy take I’d ever heard. And I’d met the mayor of Goose Run.
“Why… why would you think that?” I asked, against my better judgment.
Missy heaved a dramatic sigh. “I came here for a divorce. And since I don’t see a divorce, then I didn’t get what I paid for. So obviously I’m entitled to my money back.” She let out a high-pitched titter. “Oh, Miller. Everybody knows how return policies work.”
Was there a polite way to say,are you fucking kidding me?
It turned out if there was, I didn’t need to know because Marty got there first.
He snorted and said, “Are you fucking kidding me, bro? You’re paying for billable hours, not the end result. If you think you’re getting a refund, you’re out of your tiny mind.”
