Guess I should start locking the front door to my mansion, huh? Because I didn’t leave these windows open. I know for a fact that I locked these fuckers before I left.

Wait...

Did I?

Trouble is, when I’m not interested in something, I don’t pay attention. I’m forgetful. I know that. My whole family knows it. It’s no secret. When it comes to the normal, day-to-day life shit that we don’t care about, most geniuses are.

And right now I’m staring at a hurricane that has arrived in my living room uninvited because I’m pretty sure I locked those windows.

My purple chaise that Napoleon Bonaparte once had prominently displayed in his bedroom is taking a severe beating. The curtains from Ernest Hemingway’s beach cottage are so fucking soaked they’re like his liver on a Saturday night. And look at my thirty-thousand-dollar rug that once belonged to a Prince in Egypt whose name I can never remember. That rug is such a swamp there’s an alligator peering at me from the muck.

My arms are crossed, eyes narrowed in deliberation. My T-shirt is sucked up against my chest and abs, the back billowing out because it’s a little dry and this wind is not messing around. Unforgiving sheets of rain are pelting me. My boots feel like they’re filled with cement. These jeans are dripping and growing heavier by the second, pulling down at the waist a little and I’m not bothering to lift them up. I keep blinking away raindrops with my hair plastered to my creased forehead.

Yet still I haven’t moved.

Because this is a problem.

And I love problems.

It’s how I’ve gotten rich.

So let’s replay the night.

My cousin Ben called a couple hours ago. An ex of his texted to meet her for a drink and he didn’t want to go alone since she’s his Kryptonite. Said some drama had happened when they broke up, and he needed backup because she was so great in the sack he’d cave in and go home with her.

After the hell our family went through yesterday, he was still in town. And he suggested that it might amuse us to sit outside on a bar patio, slugging a couple of beers while we watched Mother Nature take Atlanta to her knees with this hurricane.

Who wouldn’t say yes to that?

Especially when my calls and texts were going unanswered by a certain female I was falling in love with.

Women… they can really mess with a guy.

So I searched for my key fob.

Then I remembered I’d left it in my Tesla, which I often do.

Not in all three models of Tesla that I own, mind you, just that particular model I use most frequently. And not in the Maserati either. Oh, and never, never, EVER do I leave my keys waiting in the cherry-red 1963 Corvette Stingray that I covet more than any vehicle I’ve ever owned. I’m not stupid.

In fact my I.Q. ranks rather high. Don’t mind bragging, but let’s just say that people never believe the number. I’m a coder. I create software and invent things people never even thought of, and that made me a lot of fucking money.

You want to know how intelligent I am?

I know you’re reading this, that’s how fucking smart I am.

From this moment forward, know that I’m not just some guy in a book whose life you can voyeuristically watch unfold as you turn the pages.

Nope.

I’m a real flesh and blood man, and guess what?

I put this book in your hands, that’s how fucking smart I am.

You’re devouring this right now because I made you buy it. You want proof? Go look at my picture on the cover. Check out the I-can-see-you look in my eyes. The glint that lets you know I planned this whole thing, that it’s for real.

Holy crap, did you see that lightning?

Incredible, huh?

Back to my motherfucking story.

Now I distinctly remember that right before Ben and I hung up he warned me, “Don’t forget to latch all those windows you’ve got, Ethan.”

My cousin knows me too well.

I muttered, “Yeah, yeah, of course,” because nobody likes to admit their flaws.

And then I locked every single window.

Didn’t I?

Yeah, fuck yes, I latched these for sure.

Which means only one thing.

Someone is in my mansion.

Now what do I do?

I’m drenched and I have an intruder.

There’s a loaded 9mm in my nightstand.

You’re right. I should go get that right now.

“Hey, you fuck! You still here? Get ready because I’m comin’ for you!”

Kicking the door open to my bedroom I glance over to the fish to make sure they’re okay. You like those? Pretty, aren’t they.

What is going on with my bed? Those pillows weren’t lined up like a body before. And someone has been lying on my goose-down comforter, too. See the indentations?

This is getting creepy. I’m gonna text my cousin. Give me a sec.

Ben. You still around? I think someone is in my house.

As you can see, there are no closets in this bedroom to check. I had my walk-in removed, the wall torn out so that the floor-to-ceiling fish tank could be installed. You like how it takes up the entire wall opposite my bed? Every night when I lay down it’s like sleeping in front of an exhibit at the Georgia Aquarium. I’ve even hired one of their own to clean it, and treat the salt water so that my slippery little buddies stay alive and happy. Yeah, that’s a stingray! He’s my favorite of the bunch. And this little blue guy here who’s only an inch long, he’s my second favorite. No idea what he is, but he’s so fast.

It makes no sense that Picasso is still on the wall. The thing is worth more than most houses, yet it’s not even tilted on the nail.

Snatching the gun from my nightstand, I look directly at you and hold my finger to my lips to quietly tell you, just to make sure you’re listening and that you remain out of harm’s way, “Stay back. I’m going to walk into the bathroom first and I don’t want you to get hurt. I know how to handle a gun. This is Georgia, remember?”

God, I love kicking doors open.

Feel like I’m on T.V.

Empty.

You hear that?

What the fuck, right?

That’s the only sound in my master bathroom, that relaxing trickle of my infinity bathtub coupled with the crackling gas fireplace beside it.

No, that fire was not burning when I left. And I sure as fuck did not leave a damp towel draped over my velvet chair, circa 1812. I love that chair.

What did you just say?

Holy shit, you’re right.

I didn’t even see those!

Small wet footprints are making their way out along the marble floor that I had flown in from Italy. Good eye.

My question to you is this.

Who takes a bath mid-burgle?

Nobody I want to know.

I’ve gotta search the rest of my…wait a minute.

What’s that under my bed?

You serious?

You don’t see that bit of pink poking out? I’ll just drop down really quickly and snatch it up to show you.

Just have to reach and grab it and…

Oh.

You don’t need to see these panties.

My apologies.

Excuse me while I turn around and check these out. I’ll tell you what I find.

You’re not going to believe this! I’ve seen these panties before.

But here’s the rub.

(Excuse the pun)

I’ve never brought a woman to my mansion who wasn’t family.

Ever.

Never ever.

I wouldn’t be able to get rid of them.

Bring a woman here and she’d fall in love with my home plus the future life she’d imagine for herself living here, and I would be stuck explaining to her that I’m only interested in marrying one woman.

So why am I standing in my bedroom that no female has ever gotten naked in, holding panties in one hand and a gun in the other, I dryly ask myself. And you.

Someone has soaped up in my infinity bathtub, warmed herself with my fireplace, climbed on the bed and lined up my pillows lengthwise like a body. Pretty sure those pillows are supposed to emulate me. Which is as disturbing as hell.

You know what hell is?

Waiting for a text to be returned.

Back to the problem of these pink panties with the tiny red bow.

The last time I saw these they were being pulled back on. I remember the day exactly because what happened afterward will stick in my mind forever.

Don’t call me vague.

Come on. Be nice.

I’m talking about love. Why we connect more with one person over any other. Why we search for them when they haven’t come into our lives yet. Why that search drives us to the brink of insanity. Why some of us give up and pick up the bottle. Why some of us never give up even when we don’t believe we’ll ever find them, and then one day, we do!

Even Einstein didn’t have the answer.

He couldn’t crack the soulmate code.

And that genius spent years trying.

Einny found that sometimes when you separated a particle and placed both pieces in environments that were miles apart, if you touched one the other vibrated. I’m oversimplifying his scientific experiment so I can get my point across without drowning in it. The crux of it is that he believed soulmates exist, and he wanted to prove that we vibrate at the same frequency as that other person.

And I’ll take that belief one step further and say that had he proven it he would have realized that when you find your soulmate, your life clicks into place really fucking fast.

Back to the panties.

Has this chick been wearing these ever since I saw them last?

Because they are ripe.

Wait, did I lose you?

In order to get you up to speed, I’m going to have to show you the past. It’s the only way.

How?

I’ve hacked into your brain. The best computer ever made isn’t the phone you’ve got glued to your hand most days, it’s your mind, always with you every second of every day and far superior and fascinating than anything man could design.

I learned how to crack the code of your mind so I could show you my story the way I want to.

So this is how it’s going to work. This exciting little conversation we’re having, it’s going dark. Silent. Don’t worry. I’ll be back.

You’ll see what happened from two points of view.

Mine and hers.

The her.

My her.

Immediately after everything is downloaded into that beautiful brain of yours, I’ll bring you back here to present day.

Then we’ll talk.

Hopefully you’ll give me some stellar advice.

I need it.

You’ll see.

Until then…