On My Terms

Rain pounds the roof of my parked car as I watch for activity at the two-story brick home across the street. A bolt of lightning brightens the night sky, illuminating the other stately homes on the block. Headlights approach from the rear, and a black Chevrolet Suburban stops alongside the curb in front of the house. The interior lights come on inside the SUV as the occupants—a man and woman—emerge from the other side. When the Uber takes off again, I raise my compact binoculars and follow the couple as they sprint, with raincoat hoods pulled tight over their heads, up the short sidewalk to the front porch. The man’s gait is oddly familiar. How many people own orange raincoats? I dismiss the idea. Too much of a coincidence.

I focus the binoculars on the woman. When she reaches the porch, she peels off her drenched raincoat. I recognize her from social media pics as Nora Riley, the subject of my investigation. She walks into the man’s outstretched arms. He too has shed his raincoat, and I can now see his face. My breath hitches. So it is the rotten bastard.

I wait for the couple to enter the house. Tugging a black cap over my head, I stuff my camera inside my raincoat and dash across the street. I duck down in the shrubs in front of the porch while I catch my breath. Holding the camera up to protect it, I slither on my belly across the wooden floor and peer in the window. Through the dining room, I can see into the wide center hallway where the couple is tearing at each other’s clothes. The sight of my husband’s hand on Nora’s firm ass makes my blood boil. I stand suddenly, but the lovers are too preoccupied to notice movement in the window. Slinging the camera strap around my neck, I remove my handgun from its holster on my hip. With gun aimed at the ceiling, I creep along the front of the house to where the sounds of lustful groans drift through the open front door.

Stepping over the threshold into the house, I extend my arms in front of me and aim the gun at my husband’s head. My finger is on the trigger, and I’m preparing to shoot, when it dawns on me that I’ve been set up. And Lucas is definitely not worth going to jail for. I lower and uncock the gun, sliding it back in its holster. The lovers have dropped to the floor, and Nora is riding my husband like a cowgirl at a rodeo with blonde hair dancing about her shoulders and fake breasts bouncing around like water balloons. I focus the camera lens and press the shutter, holding it down while the camera records dozens of images of their exposed bodies and faces.

Spinning on my heels, I dart across the porch and run, blinded by tears, back down the sidewalk. When I near the end, I slip on the wet bluestone and stumble into the front yard. Righting myself, I traipse through the sodden grass to the street and cross the pavement to my car.