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The text reads, You have a nice quaint house. I can picture the two of us living in it together one day. You can write books and dedicate them all to me with love. I will make you happy. I love you.
It’s not fear I’m feeling now, but instead, pure fucking naked rage.
How the fuck did you get into my house? I text
I wait for her reply. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop the phone to the old wooden floor.
I’m resourceful, she texts. Don’t you like that about me?
“Resourceful,” I say to myself. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
I text, If you break into my house again you will be arrested. I’ve already alerted the police.
It only takes a second or two for her (if it is a her) to respond.
Why Martin, there’s no need for the police. I was merely trying to surprise you while you were taking your shower. There’s no reason for anger. No reason to alert the law. I’m not going to hurt you. I love you. How many times do I have to tell you?
“While I was taking my shower,” I say. “Now I’m really creeped out.”
I have an idea, she texts. Why don’t we meet for coffee? Then you can see that I’m not a crazy lady. Plus we will be in a public place. Nothing bad can happen.
For a split second, I’m ready to tell this woman to go screw herself. She broke into my house. She broke the law. No way I’m not going to alert Mary the cop to this entire situation since it’s all my fault for ignoring her advice not to engage in the first place. But then something else enters my spinning brain. Something that could only come from a writer who is concerned with pile-driving plotting and suspense. What if I do agree to meet her and somehow and have Mary standing by? She can even be undercover, pretending to enjoy a coffee at a nearby table or couch.
I suddenly feel my spirits lift. If my plan works out, I could end up having Jennifer arrested and booked for trespassing by the time happy hour comes.
I stare down at my phone’s digital screen.
Okay, I text. How about the Starbucks in Millbrook? Three o’clock. We can talk this out.
As usual, I wait while my chest grows tight and my brain hums from the adrenaline rush. I’m pretty good when it comes to making decisions. But the problem is, those decisions aren’t always the best (again, the doctors hounded me about this).
A text comes through.
Perfect. Three o’clock. I’ll pull out my favorite dress and do my hair. Well, it’s never too late to get ready for the date of the century. Just me and bestselling author Martin Jordan having coffee. Love you. See you later alligator.
Jesus Christ almighty, is this woman a nut job or what? I hope I know what I’m getting myself into. But then, this is the first time something like this has ever occurred in my life. Sure, there have been fans who emailed me too often or even tried to call me a few times. But I managed to politely put them in their place by telling them my time was limited and that I enjoy my privacy. In fact, for a writer, privacy is everything.
Then, a truck pulls up in the driveway. At least, it sounds like a truck. I turn to the kitchen door, open it, and step outside. It’s a white Ford Extend-Van, not a truck. Smith’s Locksmith is printed on the van’s side panels. The K on Locksmith is cleverly shaped like a skeleton key. They’re early.
Two men get out. One middle-aged or about my age anyway. The other is far younger. They look alike. Father and son, I’m guessing. They’re both wearing long-sleeved denim work shirts that have the Smith’s Locksmith logo printed on the chest pocket over their hearts. They’re also wearing matching baseball hats that bear the same Smith’s logo. Their blue jeans are clean as are their work boots. Makes sense too, considering half their clientele are more than likely New York City residents who own weekend and summer homes and who are willing to pay the big bucks for security.
Both are smiling as they approach me. The old man holds out his hand.
“Mr. Jordan,” he says. “Hope you don’t mind our being a bit early. We had a cancellation and that means you’re in luck.”
I try putting on my best carefree smile.
“By all means,” I say. “I certainly don’t mind.”
The older locksmith introduces himself as Dan Smith senior, and his son as Dan junior.
“Good to see you carrying on your dad’s business,” I say.
The kid smiles, but halfheartedly.
“Thanks,” he mumbles.
“Young Dan would rather be playing drums for a living,” Dan Sr. says. “But then reality sets in and a man realizes he’s got to keep a roof over his head for himself, his young wife, and my first grandchild who is expected any day.”
I glance once more at Dan Junior. He certainly doesn’t seem to be jumping up and down at the notion of being a father. I’d like to tell him having children can be one of the most rewarding experiences of your life. But then if I were to tell him the absolute truth...that it can also be one of the most difficult if not heart-wrenching...he might lose some of his optimism. Especially if the kid ends up hating you in their teen years like my daughter hates me.
In any case, I say, “Way to go, champ. Listen to your dad. You can always play in a band while you take over the business.”
“That’s what I keep telling him,” Dan Senior says, not without a grimace. Then, “Mr. Jordan, are you the Martin Jordan who writes the mystery thrillers?”
Again, there’s that happy feeling that runs through my veins when I’m recognized. The happy feeling that can sometimes get me in trouble. But not this time.
“I read one of your books this past summer on the beach in Cape Cod,” he goes on. “The Vanquished. Loved it.”
“That one seems to be popular,” I say. “I can gift you something else if you’d like. All I ask is that you leave a review.”
He shakes his head.
“I’d rather buy one,” he says. “After all, I don’t install locks for free, and you shouldn’t work for free also. On top of that, I only read one book per year on the beach in the Cape.”
“I understand,” I say. “Must be hard running a business and taking care of a family. You have no time to yourself.”
My comment doesn’t go well with the expectant father and young husband Dan Jr. whose expression turns entirely sour. In my gut, I give him another five years before he flies the coop with a rock n’ roll band, never to be heard from again. Over the years, I’ve seen plenty of other musicians and writers do the same exact thing. Is it wrong of them? Sure. But do we only have one life to live? Yes.
“Well, speaking of time,” Dan Sr. says, “we have to get to work.”
He asks Dan to follow him back to the truck to grab their gear and materials. Dan sadly nods.
“I’ll leave you professionals to it,” I say. “The house is open and all set for you. Kitchen and front doors. Also, the basement door needs a deadbolt.”
“Great,” Dan says over his shoulder while walking to his van. “I have Ring Doorbell Systems for both exterior doors. You should be fully protected.”
“I’ll install the app now,” I say.
Making my way across the grass, I head to my studio, not to write, but to call the cop. She needs to know what the hell is going on.