I left the party way later than I should have, which is funny, because I didn’t want to be there in the first place. Actually, hold up, I should rephrase that. I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place.
I couldn’t have felt more out of place the entire time. People had to know the guy who looked like he should be on those of those reality TV shows based in Alaska wasn’t really invited to an engagement party for some 25-year-old blonde former UMass sorority girl.
Luckily, no one seemed to pry too hard. I only talked to a few party goers, most of whom just asked very superficial questions about how I knew the bride or groom and I stuck to the script. I was a cousin of the bride who came down from northern New Hampshire for hunting season, and the party.
Who was I really?
I was the guy you call when you want information on someone or you want to keep track of someone, but you can’t do it yourself. I could call myself a private detective, or private investigator, but I’m not that organized. I only have a small net of people around New England who know how to get a hold of me for my services, and I admittedly was behind the times. Most private investigators spend more time “catfishing” on Facebook or Instagram or hacking emails these days instead of stalking folks around town in shitty old trucks the way I do.
I was surprised when the father of the bride at the party, Brian, showed up at my auto shop. He looked too clean, too soft and frankly too rich to be poking around rural Maine looking for a has-been private investigator to do his dirty work. Maybe he really wanted to get off the grid?
Brian wanted me to start keeping tabs on a young woman who would be attending his daughter’s engagement party – Tarah Rodgers – a fairly standard, brunette, 25-year-old western Massachusetts woman. The only details he was able to give me was her age and a couple of blurry pictures which looked to be printed off of Facebook.