Being a private investigator wasn’t all that different from being an actual detective: footwork, paperwork, and sitting around with our thumbs up our asses. This morning I was going to waste a few hours sitting outside some douchebag’s home to find out if his wife was having an affair. It promised to be brain-leaking boring—shit like this always was—but the paycheck was too nice to pass up and if she was cheating, the guy deserved to know. I had zero reservations about informing him—I had a special dislike for cheaters. It was the worst thing you could do to a…
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