Page 3 of XO Karma

Just throw the entire man away, truly.

Unfortunately, having done this almost a year now, nothing surprises me. Even the fucked-up stuff, I’ve seen it before, and I’ll see it again.

Guess my evening’s all booked.

The darkness of night conceals me as I attempt to scale a massive oak tree outside Cynthia White’s house, muscles burning. There’s a single window illuminated in warm light on the second story, and I’m working my way toward it for a better vantage point.

My face is hidden behind the pink Ghostface mask I got on clearance after Halloween last year. I paid in cash so it’s untraceable back to me. The mesh over the eyes paired with the poor lighting has made it nearly impossible to find a proper grip, and I’ve slipped off the trunk six times. My leg misses a foothold, and I slide back to the ground with a thud.

Seven.

Huffing in frustration, I glance around, noting no cameras or witnesses, then rip the mask off my face and shove it in my backpack. I’m more likely to get caught if I keep falling. Reinitiating the climb, I gain more height in seconds than I did in the five minutes prior.

Halfway up the trunk, sweat drips into my eyes, and I curse my incessant need to double check proof. But given how impressive generative AI has gotten, even photos or videos can’t be trusted these days. That lesson was learned the hard way.

Let’s just say a middle school principal may have gotten an undeserved house TP-ing. The requesters posted the photo I sent for payment proof on social media with the caption #BestSeniorPrankEver #XOKARMA, and I about threw my phone out the window. I should’ve gotten revenge on the little shits who tricked me into it, but I respected the strategy to outsource on their part. They also paid me $1500 for the request, and while I’m highly curious if it was a bake-sale-funded prank, it was an easy payday.

So alas, no stone is unturned before Karma is enacted.

For this request, the first thing I did was use court records to verify the marriage. A quick search of the county tax appraiser’s office confirmed this is Cynthia’s house.

The earthy scent of bark paired with sweat envelops me as I reach a large sturdy branch extending towards the roof. After a few calming breaths, I scoot onto it. The wood creaks beneath me, and I quicken my pace.

Please don’t break.

Once across, I hop onto the roof with a quiet thud, then shuffle to position myself just below the window. I take a moment to regain oxygen, then peek through a small slit of the curtains, which gives view to the bed and some slight movement under the sheets.

A shadow passes, blocking my view, and I freeze, my entire body going rigid. Crouching out of sight, I retrieve a contact microphone kit from my backpack, which allows me to hear the conversation without being physically in the room. I get a small piece of reusable poster putty, press it against the window, and adhere the flat brass disc onto it, then place the headphones over my ears and click on the device.

Crackling silence fills the void as I await something, anything, that will allow me to get the hell out of here. The rustling wind howls briefly through my ears, and I wince.

“I’ve missed you,” a deep voice says, pulling my attention.

“I saw you six hours ago, Rich,” she coos.

“Yeah. And I had to sit there and pretend like I wasn’t thinking about what’s under that little skirt of yours the entire meeting.” Cynthia laughs, the sounds of kisses taking over, and I struggle to wipe the disgust off my face. Just give me something, people.

“How long can you stay tonight?” she asks.

“I’ve only got thirty minutes,” Richard replies.

“Not longer?”

“The baby hasn’t been sleeping well. Sarah will wake soon.” A few water droplets land on my face, and I glance toward the sky, noticing a misting rain. Note to self: always check the weather.

“When are you going to tell her you’re leaving?” Cynthia asks, and he hums.

“How about you remind me what I’m leaving her for?”

A gag fights its way out of me. Why do women fall for this shit?

“Maybe you should remind me why I’m waiting around for you?” she counters.

Damn, girl, okay. If you weren’t indulging this man’s infidelity, I might give you props.

“Oh,” she moans. “Yes, that’s a start.”

“Yeah?” he growls, and another whine floods my ears. “You like it when I fu⁠—”