You didn’t make it as a cop so you became a private dick. But tracking cheating husbands for rich wives was making you way too cynical for your taste. So you pared down your agency to focus solely on helping young girls and, to a lesser extent, boys, determine the authors of the secret admirer letters they receive from classmates.
“The thing you want to be sure of is, do you wanna know,” you tell the girls (and occasionally boys) who show up in your office. “Getting that anonymous love letter is big boost to the spirit. No one can blame you for hoping, even assuming, it was written by the hottie who’s filling up the pages of your diary. But invariably, the kind of person who won’t sign their name is the kind of person who assumes their name won’t be welcome at the bottom of a love letter.”
Their response is usually the same. “I need to know for sure, in order to know how to proceed.”
Today’s the day you meet a client on the field hockey field with an envelope full of pictures, handwriting samples, and covert audio recordings.
“Here’s your guy,” you’ll say.
She’ll pull out the photo and say what they always say: “Ew.”
“Give him a shot?” you’ll say. “Maybe read the letter again.”
“You didn’t mention your retainer included relationship advice,” she’ll say, forging her mother’s name onto a check.
Stuff the payment in your coat and get back in your car. You can’t make them give these anons a chance. All you can do is introduce them and hope they’ll give their lovers from afar a closer glance.
Happy Secret Admirer Hunter Day!
