What I don’t like is my uninvited house guest. I menacingly slap the mallet against my hand.
“Okay, Mr. Spider. Tonight, I’m not playing nice.”
CHAPTER 8
Lu-Anne
The great thing about being self-employed is that I get to set my own hours. But the shitty thing about being self-employed is also that I get to set my own hours. I guess the best way to explain it is to say that after I’ve slacked off for two days due to lack of sleep and my obsession with proving Mr. Mob is up to something, I have a butt load of work to do, and catching up sucks. I love being able to keep my own schedule, but if I’m not disciplined, I start missing deadlines, and that means not-so-happy clients.
Instead of fiddling around with my new camera system, I spend the rest of the next day catching up on sleep and cranking out travel articles about places I’ve never been to and have no hopes of visiting. Usually, I feel a little bit of longing while I’m doing my research. Today, I’m all business.
I do notice Mr. Mob’s car pulling into the garage at three in the afternoon. It catches my attention, and I stop my furious typing to give my laptop a rest before it spontaneously combusts. I glance through the open blinds, but there isn’t any movement inside the house. As usual, the blinds and shades are tightly shut.
Instead of fueling my obsession with Mr. Mob’s comings and goings, I fuel my still sleep-deprived self with another cup of coffee and get back to work.
I keep my ass rooted in my desk chair and type away for so long that when I finally take a break, I’m surprised to find that it’s dark out. I glance at the bottom right corner of my laptop screen. It’s ten. How the heck did it get to be ten already? I haven’t even eaten dinner yet, and since I’m now aware of that, I’m also aware my stomach is pinched like a tight little fist in there. I feel like my body has started to resort to cannibalism, eating itself in order to keep going.
Before I head downstairs, I can’t resist one last glance at Mr. Mob’s house. Of course, there isn’t anything going on. I crank the blinds shut with a sigh and march down to the kitchen. I hate cooking for myself, so I opt for my usual go-to: a bowl of cereal. I splash on some cream to liven it up, and after I add in some sliced bananas and strawberries, it’s not half bad.
I decide, after all my hard work, to reward myself by sitting in the living room in front of the little screen. It’s small, less than the size of a desktop computer monitor. I don’t know anything about inches and whatnot, but I do know it’s split into four so I can see what’s going on with every camera in real-time. The things can see in the dark, which is pretty cool. I get a strange x-ray looking image on the screen in blacks and whites.
I don’t know what I expect to see, but I sit down with my bowl of cereal anyway and keep my attention riveted. For a few minutes, nothing happens. The guys mounted the cameras at the high parts of my house, and as I requested, they faced two at my house and two at the backyard area and beyond. Every single camera angle captures a little bit of Mr. Mob’s property, which is just what I wanted without really having to even ask for it. I think the security company would have found the request odd if I had asked.
“Holy macaroni and cheese!” I nearly choke on an errant strawberry chunk when I see movement on the lower right part of the screen.
Mr. Mob appears, dressed in his usual black. He has his hoodie on and his ball cap pulled low so I can barely see any part of his face. As he is dressed all in black, it was hard to spot him. But what isn’t hard to spot is the giant rolled-up rug he has heaved over his shoulder.
“No way!” I stare in horror for a few seconds before I finally drop my bowl, splashing cereal and milk and fruit all over the place. I grab my phone, aim it at the screen, and record everything that’s happening, just in case.
Yes, that is definitely a rug. Mr. Mob sets it down on the ground in his backyard. He glances around after like he’s checking to see if anyone noticed. Of course, no one noticed. There isn’t anyone around to witness him taking out a freaking body.
No, it can’t be a body. He wouldn’t just drag a body out there at ten at night. He wouldn’t lay it right in his backyard, would he?