The cabinets were lacking any sort of canned goods from the grocery store. Instead, there were rows of preserved fruits and vegetables, likely from the farmers market.
Did I know that for sure? Nope. But they seemed like the sort to give a shit
“Actually,” I continued my thought out loud. “They probably have a private chef who does it all for them. That honestly makes me hate them more Jesus so I’m gonna go with that.”
I promptly knocked every stupid jar off the shelf, saving only a few to turn around and throw at the kitchen wall.
Next was the refrigerator where Jesus claimed a leftover rotisserie chicken carcass and scattered away like a starved, growling hellcat.
I vacated my snack efforts and opened the appliance garage that onlynarcissistic rich people had. For a split second I debated stealing them to resell on eBay, but, in the end my own narcissism got the best of me.
Nothing survived.
Nothing except…
“Hells yes!”
Mounted at the end of the recessed counter was the homebase to a surround sound system that I’d only ever dreamed of owning. It could link to up to 10 Bluetooth speakers that had a crazy range.
It only took a matter of seconds to get my phone connected and blasting my favorite 80s hits throughout the house
“Pretty tech savvy for a dead girl, eh Jesus? And will work perfect for my inevitable, dramatic rage fueled murder.”
I was antsy just thinking about it. When I saw Callen’s face, I wanted to savor the kill. I wanted to torture him by telling him how I’d killed his son, make him feel helpless as he watched Joe die through my words, and then spin hours keeping him on the brink of death until he begged to cross that line. And even then I wouldn’t give it to him.
Fueled by the anticipation of bloodlust, I checked the GPS tracker Barb had downloaded on my phone to check Callen’s status. I’d taken a risk by coming to his house after my murder spree. There was no way of knowing if Callen would come back to this house. It was the only thing that made sense though.
There was nothing decent or human inside of Callen, and he would be on edge about discovery. The only emotion sociopaths like him were capable of was paranoia and the chaotic, explosive rage that followed. The sort of mess at the shipping yard would draw considerable attention. Certainly local, and likely national. I’ve been sadistic enough to bring in agencies like the FBI, and they were really good at sniffing out people like Callan.
His whole world would be crumbling, and I couldn’t wait to play with the pieces.
***
The downstairs was thoroughly wrecked. The lights were off. The scene, set.
I sat in the one chair I hadn’t run a knife through, phone open, and in my lap, tracking the two dots that were pulling into the driveway.
A shiver crawled over my skin. The purpose of my afterlife was a mere minute away, and my nerves were in a frenzy.
I didn’t know what life looked like after Callen’s death. What I didn’t know, though, was that I was ready to find out.
The mechanical whir of the garage door vibrated the air and changed to a home as Callen’s SUV pulled inside.
I took one deep, studying breath and navigated to my music app as I exhaled.
Eddie Money stared at me through a sepia filter from his epicCan’t Hold Backalbum. My thumb hovered over the song that had both defined and controlled the last thirty years of my life.
I heard muffled voices getting closer to the interior garage door, and so I pushed play. The first musical chords ofTake Me Home Tonightdrifted through the speakers.
This is it,I thought. Tonight is the night you take your power back.
The door opened, and I laughed offhandedly, because even the doors were too perfect to make a sound.
“I can’t believe you let this happen,” growled Callen. The door slammed clothes behind him and keys clanged against the countertop as he discarded them in a frenzy. “The police are going to—”
He stopped short, and even the Earth stopped turning as it held its breath.
“Who the fuck is there?” Calen called, his voice firm and commanding. “Stacy?”
