Page 39 of The Best Part of Breaking Up

“What’s your entrepreneurship, specifically?"

“I leverage my brand to make money from advertisers, mostly.”

“So you influence people to buy products from other companies?” I clarify.

There’s a flash of anger in her large eyes, and I can tell she wants to go in about this. Instead, she gives me another expression from what I’m learning is her pout repertoire: this one is ‘annoyed’.

“I think that’s an oversimplification, but sometimes, yes.”

“What is your financial situation?”

“Well, unfortunately I’ve taken a sizable hit since I left Teddy. He’s cut me off from almost everything I need to run my business.”

“Such as?”

“Things that are critical to my brand. The studio.” She huffs out a frustrated laugh. “Farkas.”

You might think it odd, if you were new to this line of work, for a cat to come up in divorce proceedings. At this point in my career, it feels standard. I’ve negotiated the custody of dogs, reptiles, rodents, horses, livestock, and once, an African Grey Parrot that traveled everywhere on the client’s shoulder. He’d taught the bird to reply with his name when asked who she wanted to live with. He was outraged when we declined to depose her.

“What’s your relationship with Farkas?” I ask.

Gigi shows us the pensive pout.

“With all of Teddy’s… abuse… I really started to feel like no one cared about me at all. Like I wasn’t worthcaring about. Farkas reminded me that I was. He was one of the only things that kept me sane during those hardest last few months. It’s because of him I got the strength to leave. Not just for my sake, but for his as well. So I hope you understand why I cannot leave him there.”

This testimony is surprisingly compelling. Quentin and I share a split-second glance before I continue.

“What role did you play in his care?”

“I was like a mother to him.”

“Of course,” I say. “Can you tell me what kind of food he eats?”

She blinks at me for a moment, and I catch that predatory flash in her eyes again. It’s downright feline: eerily focused, ready to pounce without warning.

“Cat food,” she says.

“How often does he eat?”

She’s staring at me now as if this question is a personal attack.

“Every day.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“He eats whenever he wants. I leave the food bowl out.”

I nod. “And what veterinarian do you use?”

She gives me a small smile, once again sweeping at hair that hasn’t fallen loose from her bun.

“Only the best of the best, for my Farkie.”

“Of course. And which vet is that, exactly?”

“The clinic is on Poplar. They have multiple doctors on staff. It varies.”

It’s a safe response. A clever response. Poplar Avenue runs the entire length of the city. The likelihood there’s a vet’s office somewhere on it – multiple vet offices – is highly probable.

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