The tremor of my hand causes the wine bottle to shake against my lips as a warm ticket to numbness pours down my throat. Someone was in here. In my fucking house. Going through my stuff. I set down the bottle on the table. It’s the second one I’ve had, its contents already half gone. The handwritten note tacked to the wall mocks me, but I’m too terrified to read it again.
It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve searched the entire place—my loaded revolver in hand. I’ve put everything back where it goes, the cushions on the couch, the random bills tossed about the kitchen floor, the insignificant notes that had been sifted through in my nightstand. Even with all the disruption of my things, I can’t figure out the motivation. This wasn’t a robbery, because nothing, as far as I know, was taken.
Terror melts to rage, enveloping me like a swarm of angry honeybees. Stings me in every conceivable place as I scoop up as much of Mom and Dad as I can, their former home shattered beyond repair. What monster could do this? What monster would hurt them?
My eyes cut to the note again, its giant red letters blurry from this distance, but still legible and menacingly cordial.
I FED YOUR DOG AT 8 AM scrawled in big, red block letters—no hint at the gender of its artist.
My first course of action after reading it was to dial Alicia. She said she fed Lucy at 5 PM, and Devon had walked her around 8 PM. Neither of them had seen anything unusual.
The only conclusion I can come to is that whoever did this is the same person in the red car—whoever he or she may be.
I stomp to the wall where the note is tacked. Angrily rip it down, my body growing hot as jet fuel over the disgust I feel toward this person. They’ve picked the wrong woman to mess with. I’ll figure out who they are, and then I’ll ruin them. Make them wish they’d never glanced my way.
My bet’s on that whore, Eliza—poor, pathetic Eliza. It has to be. Who else would be interested in my life? I bet she’s utterly miserable with her newly mundane existence, coming to terms with what an awful mother she’ll be to my little savior baby. She probably got so bored she’s been snooping around in my life, intent on getting revenge because she undoubtedly blames me for everything she’s lost, even though it’s her own slutty fault. In one affair, she managed to shame her family name, lose Brooks, and her shot at marrying into God knows how much money, and compromise her own inheritance.
She’s a mess. Brooks really dodged a bullet.
“What about the Target creep?” Jared asks, standing next to me at the bar as I swivel in my chair. He wasn’t supposed to be back until tomorrow, but his mother apparently had enough of him.
My eyes roll. This is the second time he’s ridiculously suggested the man who enthusiastically chatted me up in line and then slowly drove by as I loaded my groceries. “No. I just can’t figure out why someone would come in and not take anything.”
“I don’t know … check your underwear drawer?” His eyes move in a circle, an innocent whistle blowing from his lips—a dig at his own fetish.
I laugh. “Seriously, Jared. I’m trying to connect the dots here. I’ve talked to all the neighbors now. None of them has a friend or relative with that type of car. Then my house gets broken into, nothing stolen, and they go out of their way to let me know they fed my fucking dog?”
“Maybe they just really like dogs.” He shrugs, then motions to the bartender for another beer.
“Jared, come on! I feel like you’re not taking this seriously enough.”
He scoots his stool closer to me. Nudges me with his elbow. “Sorry, babe. I’m only trying to help calm you down. Honestly, it’s creepy as fuck. If you hadn’t filed a police report already, I’d drive you to the station myself. What kind of shit did they ask you, by the way?”
I sigh. Lean my head against him, recounting the agonizing forty-five minutes of having the police in my house. “You know, the usual stuff: did I leave the door unlocked, how long was I gone, did I notice anything missing.”
“They take fingerprints?”
“They didn’t find prints on any of the stuff that was disturbed.”
“So, the perp wore gloves?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll stay over tonight,” he offers. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
I consider his proposal, but it sours my stomach. If Brooks found out Jared spent the night, we’d be toast on assumptions. Having Jared stay over now as he’s regularly done over the last few months simply can’t continue. There’s a fine line between being a majestic and desirable zebra, who’s merely desired by other lions, and being a zebra who’s actually fucking those other lions. I think it would be good for Brooks to be jealous, though—to wonder if there’s someone else, if I could be swept up at any moment. But it’s far more dangerous for him to really believe there is. I’d rather take my chances with the psycho intruder. I mean, if they really wanted to kill me or something, wouldn’t they have been waiting for me when I got back?
“No, that’s okay. I’ll be fine. But thanks.”
Jared shrugs. Attempts to smile and move on, but he seems disappointed. Quickly, his mood drops to a low I haven’t seen from him. He asks about staying over two more times over the course of our lunch, in between long stretches of him staring at his phone and texting. At one point, he leans over to show me a funny video on Imgur—some stupid site he’s obsessed with. I see another video below it that looks interesting, and grab the phone from his hand.
He snatches it back, nearly knocking over his drink before stuffing the phone into his jeans.
“Jared?” I ask, shock dripping from my voice.
He pulls his wallet from the other pocket. Stuffs his credit card into the bill holder before smiling thinly at me. “Sorry. I have to get going—haircut appointment in twenty.”
His eyes fix on the bartender who treks off to run his payment. Sweat rolls down the back of his neck as I note his neat sideburns and the crisp line at the nape. Questions grip me, invading every lobe of my brain, and my spine prickles at the question illuminating in my mind.
Who gets a haircut when they clearly just had one?