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Her words bring back all the anxiety and the dizziness that goes with it. I head into the house and make my way upstairs. In the master bedroom I once shared with Laura, I go to my nightstand, open the drawer, and pull out the Valium. Since it’s still early in the day, I bite one pill in half and dry swallow it. I sit on the edge of the bed and wait for the medicine to kick in. When it does, I feel my pulse normalize and my breathing becomes less shallow. The dizziness is replaced with a kind of euphoria too.
For the hell of it, I pull out my gun.
“Is Jenny the Jennifer who has been texting me all morning?” I ask myself. “Was their suddenly finding me passed out on the side of the road an accident? Or had they actually been following me? Spying on me. Maybe they’re looking at me right now. I never lock the house when I go out or when I’m in my writing studio. Maybe they snuck in and installed hidden cameras. Matthew said he was in construction. He would know how to install tiny hidden cameras and listening devices like the kind a spy uses.”
I go to my phone which is still set on the dresser of drawers. Almost tentatively, I turn it over to see if I’ve received any new messages. There’s one message that arrived a few minutes ago. I click on it.
Are you writing my book now? When you finish will you dedicate it to Jennifer with LOVE?
I inhale and exhale a breath and set the phone back down again, Note to self: get used to locking the doors of your home even if you are occupying the house. Heading downstairs, I lock the front wood door, and then enter the kitchen and lock the door that accesses the back spaces of the property. Once that’s done, I feel better. But it sort of sucks too, considering I moved to the country from the city to get away from all the crime.
Now I’m thinking not only about purchasing a Ring doorbell system but maybe I should call a locksmith and have the locks changed. Perhaps even add some deadbolts. Or hell, it’s possible I’ll call a professional alarm company to install a state-of-the-art intruder alert system that will be directly linked to the Millbrook police. A lot to think about for a guy who’s trying to get his writing mojo back.
Heading back upstairs, I undress and start the shower. While the water is warming up, I use the toilet like a chair and stare at my smartphone’s digital screen. I focus on the last text Jennifer sent.
Are you writing my book now? When you finish will you dedicate it to Jennifer with LOVE?
As often as I read the words, they don’t change.
I’m not supposed to engage, but what the hell else am I going to do? I don’t want to risk getting Jennifer mad at me. If she gets mad at me there’s no telling what she will do. It’s possible she’ll try to burn my old, wooden house down while I’m sleeping tonight. I picture myself asleep under the covers while the flames engulf the first floor and creep up the walls to the second floor. By the time I’m aware of the fire and the smoke, it will be too late. I’ll be surrounded by flames and dying of smoke inhalation. The authorities will be forced to ID my body via my dental records.
Are you the Jenny as in Jenny and Matthew who rescued me this morning? I text.
Despite the Valium, I feel my pulse pick up. Mouth goes dry. Some of the dizziness returns. But then, what the hell is wrong with me? If Jennifer really is Jenny, then there’s nothing to worry about. She seems like such a nice innocent kid. Both of them seem very nice. Nice enough to stop and help me when I needed it most—when I could have been run over by a semi.
A response comes through.
Why do you want to know?
Pulse picks up even more. Head spins.
I need to know.
She answers right away.
Stay safe...Talk soon.
I stare at the phone while the shower steams up the bathroom,
“That’s it?” I say aloud.
For a split second, I think about texting her back. Instead, I whisper, “Fuck it,” and I press the icon that dials her number. It rings and rings until an automated operator comes on the line.
“The number you’re trying to reach is either out of order or temporarily disconnected. Please check the number and try again.”
“Fuck,” I say.
I do what the robot tells me to do. I dial again. Same number. Same automated message.
“Fuck me.”