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Standing up straight, I’m tempted to toss my phone against the wall. But then I quickly recall how cash-poor I am, and I think twice about wrecking my Samsung. Instead, I set it on the sink counter, and get in the shower. I allow the water to run over me. When I was a teenager and I got in the shower, all I thought about were girls. Now that I’m a middle-aged man, whenever I get in the shower, I think about all the stories I want to write. In particular, I think about my work in progress.
Is the Jennifer story that’s unfolding before my eyes in real-time indeed my new work in progress? The story I’ve been waiting to come to me for weeks. As I soap up my body and rinse off, I conclude that could very well be. Maybe I shouldn’t be so paranoid about the many texts I’ve gotten this morning after all. It’s also possible that the couple who helped me out today were just that...the couple who helped me out. Sure, Jenny sounds a lot like Jennifer and can be used as a short version of the formal name. But that could be just a coincidence. I’ve known my fair share of Jennifers in my life and even dated a couple back in the day.
I rinse off once more, shut off the water, and get out. That’s when I hear a door open, and slam shut. A shockwave shoots throughout my nervous system. I feel my entire body trembling. I quickly steal the towel off the back of the door and wrap it around my waist. Heading into the bedroom, I go around the bed and grab my gun.
Tip-toeing out the open bedroom door, I listen to the creaks and squeaks of the old wooden floorboards. The noises seem ten times as loud as they do under normal circumstances. But these aren’t normal circumstances. There might be an intruder in my home. But how the hell can that be? I personally locked the doors. Who else would have a key to the place? Only one person I know of, and I haven’t spoken a word to her in six years. Laura.
In any case, I picture the tall, long brunette-haired woman. Maybe she’ll be dressed in her usual uniform of worn Levis jeans and cowboy boots, an expensive New York City-purchased leather bag slung over her shoulder, and Gucci sunglasses masking her eyes.
From the top of the stairs, I swallow something bitter and dry.
I say, “Laura, is that you?”
I listen intently for a reply. I get nothing. My gut tells me that whoever just entered the house is not Laura.
“Who’s there?” I shout.
Again, I get nothing. It’s then I hear the kitchen door open and close again. It’s as though whoever broke in has taken what they came for and left. Or perhaps they thought I wasn’t home and when they heard my voice, they got scared and took off. Makes total sense. Inhaling and exhaling a breath, I make my way down the old steps.
Coming to the landing, I make sure the pistol safety is off and that the barrel is pointed directly ahead of me. That way, if someone decides to come at me with the intent to inflict some serious pain, I can stop them in their tracks with one single hollow-point bullet. America might be going down the tube when it comes to crime and punishment, but I still retain the right to protect myself inside my own home.
I make the corner and enter the kitchen. It’s empty. I go past the gas stove and the basement door to the dining room. It’s empty. I check the entire first floor. It’s all empty. And no way anyone could have snuck upstairs Because I would have seen them. I go back to the basement door. Just gazing at the door scares me. I never go down there. Correction, I go down there only when absolutely necessary since the electrical panel is mounted to the stone basement wall.
I turn the doorknob and yank the old wood door open. Yanking on the overhead string, I turn on the bare lightbulb that illuminates the old wood staircase in an eerie iridescent, golden glow. Spider webs are everywhere, and the black, furry, eight-legged arachnids go running for cover. Did I mention I fucking hate spiders?
“Anyone down there?” I bark. “Because I have a gun.”
I get nothing. Turning off the light, I shut the door, There’s no lock on it. Note to Self: get a lock for the basement door. Maybe my imagination was playing tricks on me when I thought I heard the kitchen door opening and closing not once but twice. Still dressed only in my bathrobe, I turn and head past the harvest table for the staircase just outside the kitchen.
There’s a handwritten note set on top of the table.