Page 17 of Faking the Pass
I loved the privacy my house offered as well as falling asleep to the sound of waves right outside the windows. I also love being able to fish from my own dock out back, something I hoped to be doing a lot of during my recovery.
Of course I’d have to learn to cast with my left hand instead of my dominant right. Ugh.
Once inside, I flipped on the kitchen lights, stopping short at what they revealed.
Weird.I guessed the cleaners hadn’t been here. There was a plate and mug in the sink, and on the counter, an almost empty wine bottle.
Okay then.Maybe the cleaning womandidcome and had decided to help herself to a lovely Napa chardonnay instead of doing her job.
Either that or the drugs they’d used to knock me out during surgery last week had wiped out my memory of opening it myself.
Had someone come over the night before the ill-fated game?
Yeah, thatmusthave been what happened. I’d never had an issue before with the Fairy Godmother Cleaning Agency.
One of my family members had probably called them and notified them about my injury and hospitalization, and they’d simply canceled their service until further notice.
Well, I was a big boy, and I could clean up my own messes. I loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher and wiped down the counters.
Then I checked the fridge. I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t remember what I had here at home, and I’d need to order some groceries tomorrow.
The refrigerator was pretty much empty except for a stick of butter, some eggs, cheese slices, a package of uncured, sugar-free bacon, and a jar of minced garlic.
I could have sworn there’d been about half a leftover pizza in here, but I must have finished it.
Moving through the living room, I headed for the hallway leading back to my bedroom—and froze.
There was a single wine glass on the lamp table beside my favorite chair. Next to the glass sat a plate littered with pizza crusts.
And a pile of cellophane snack wrappers.
I walked over and picked one up. It was from a package of those super-processed chocolate cupcakes with the white cream inside and the swirl on top.
And there were aboutsixof them scattered over the table.
Either I was a total slob and had left my place a mess before last week’s game—andhad eaten junk food Ineverate but kepton hand for my brothers’ visits—or someone else had been in my house.
To top it off, a fluffy throw blanket my mom had given me (that had never actually been used) was draped over the chair’s arm.
Holy shit.Did some deranged groupie find my address and make herself at home?
Or maybe a drug addict had gotten the munchies and decided to raid my pantry? There were no signs of a break-in.
Maybe it had been a highly skilled cat burglar who’d broken in then gotten hungry. My eyes darted around the room, taking inventory.
The entertainment system was still intact, and no one had touched the Super Bowl trophies displayed on the shelves on either side of my fireplace, so I doubted someone had broken in with the intention of robbing me.
Peering down the hall, I saw that all the doors coming off it were standing open as usual—all but one.
The primary bedroom door was closed. My bedroom door.
Shit shit.Maybe therewasa burglar here, and he was ransacking the bedroom first before pilfering the electronics.
Ididkeep my Superbowl rings and my watches in my top dresser drawer.
Should I call the police?
Nah. I didn’t hear anyone. It was probably nothing but an overactive imagination and anesthesia-induced memory loss.
