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God, it feels so damn good to destroy something. Some people like to build things. They lay foundations, then build walls, and cover the stunning structures with colorful metal roofs. I’d much prefer to take a wrecking ball to something and demolish it. It’s like committing murder and getting away with it. Fire is like that too. I like to burn things. If my house were to catch fire tonight, I’d probably wait to call 911, just so I could bask in the glow of the yellow/orange firelight. But I’m getting ahead of my skis here.
Destruction is one thing, but finding hidden surveillance devices is another. That’s my mission. To find whatever Jennifer has planted inside my house. How long has she been watching me? How long have I been the subject of her daily and nightly fantasies? She mentioned a Martin Jordan room in the basement of her house. Is that where she live streams me? Live streams my life?
The first hole I busted into the wall produced nothing but broken plaster, wood splinters, and dust. It’s the same story with the second and the third holes. But the fourth hole I pound into the wall is different. There’s a red wire that’s been run inside the wall that I don’t recognize.
“What do we have here?” I ask myself.
Tossing the crowbar onto the bed, I go to the dresser of drawers and take another hit off the whiskey bottle. The alcohol makes me feel alive. My cell phone vibrates and chimes in my back pocket. I pull it out. There are two texts. One from Jennifer and the other from Matthew and Jenny. I swallow something dry and bitter.
I decide to open Jennifer’s first.
Why haven’t you responded to my long heartfelt text Martin my love? I poured my heart out to you and you haven’t answered me. My poor mother is in such pain in the hospital. Ignoring me gives me pain. Please write me back so I know you’re okay and not angry with me. I love you. Soon you will dedicate a book to me. Not telling, just asking baby.
Uncapping the whiskey bottle, I steal another drink. I then open Matthew and Jenny’s text.
Well hi there, Mr. Jordan. Just a reminder about our dinner tomorrow evening. We’re having steaks cooked out on the grill along with corn on the cob and my famous potato salad (Matthew is crazy about it). I can’t wait to see you again and hope you are feeling better. I pray I’m not disturbing your writing right now. Maybe you can dedicate a book to me one day. 😉
“What the fuck?” I say aloud. “How can two separate women be asking me the same thing at the same time?”
My heart is beating so fast it feels like it’s about to pull an “Alien” and explode right out of my chest. Setting the phone down on the dresser, I take another pull off the whiskey bottle, and go to the bed. Picking up the crowbar, I proceed to whack the wall with one blow after the other, punching holes in it that are so big, you can fit my pickup truck through them. More colored wires are exposed. I have no idea what they connect to. But my built-in shit-detector (my writer’s intuition) tells me that at least some of them must be connected to small cameras and listening devices.
Tossing the crowbar back on the bed, I grab hold of the red wire and start pulling on it. It becomes tight and tears its way through the plaster. The overhead ceiling-mounted lamp begins to tremble, the lightbulb flicking on and off. I pull and pull until eventually it comes crashing down on the mattress, then bouncing onto the wood floor where the bulb and the old glass housing explode into a million jagged pieces. I reach for some of the glass to toss it in the waste basket, but it cuts my fingers. Just what a writer needs. An injury to the fingers.
The blood is dripping all over the place when I hear footsteps on the staircase.
“Jesus,” I silently scream to myself. “She’s in my house. Jennifer is inside my house.”
I pull my gun from my holster and aim it at the open door. That’s when I see Mary the cop standing there.