Page 30 of Total Exposure

My family home has one of each. The ballroom is empty most of the time. Just a sad, open room with extravagant wood floors and tall rectangle windows with sheer curtains, much like these, that pool down onto the floor and always made me think of how much dust they must collect.

And our receiving area looks more like a men’s club than a living area. Large wing-back chairs upholstered in soft leather and seams held together by large brass nailheads.

This house is smaller than ours. And really, who needs a ballroom? So Jordan—or whoever the fuck owns this place—has turned it into a formal living area. A place to talk with guests and be served afternoon tea, and just generally be ostentatious.

She scans the room, looking for something, but then gets distracted by the ceiling.

I don’t blame her for that. It is a nice ceiling. But a few moments later she snaps out of her awe when she finds the cameras.

She mumbles something which I can’t understand and will have to replay later, and then moves on towards the kitchen.

Same shit in there. She looks around. Perhaps impressed, perhaps not. I mean, she is Evangeline Rolaine, right? I think this is a pretty cool mansion, but does it impress me? Are you fucking kidding? This might as well be the children’s playhouse compared to what I grew up in.

She was quite the little worldly globetrotter as a child. She played for Saudi princes and the Queen of England. I bet she’s seen her share of swank.

But she touches things in there. The red knobs of the stove. The smooth, cold countertops. The dark gray cabinet doors. Perhaps picturing herself living here. Or maybe comparing this place with hers, the way I’m doing with my own family dwelling.

She looks around, again, like she’s searching for something, then backs out into the hallway, like she’s reluctant to leave.

I wonder if she cooks?

It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal. I literally cannot remember the last time I didn’t grab food from a restaurant.

Her steps are quicker now. Still tentative, but less so than before she entered the kitchen.

And that’s when she stops.

My smile is automatic. Because this will be the room she falls in love with.

She reaches for the double doors, pulls them both open at the same time, and then…

Stunned silence as she takes it all in and then… and then she sees what I’ve been wanting her to see since I first discovered it myself.

I grin wide. Because I was right. This room will…

She walks in, hand over her chest, that terrible fast breathing making her sound like a panting dog, and stops next to a yellow velvet couch, reaching for it, like she might fall over.

“Can it…” but that’s all I catch as she begins to mumble out a constant stream of words.

She rushes towards the violin in the corner. It’s a beautiful violin. Soft, subtle shades of red. Ebony-black knobs. The strings look silver in the dim light filtering through the long, sheer curtains.

She gets about a foot away and stops, her head shaking back and forth. No, that shake says. No. And then she backs away from the instrument. She trips over the rug, bumps into the arm of a couch, and falls to the floor.

No. That’s not what happens. She crumples to the floor.

I lean in again, trying to see more than the camera allows. “What the fuck are you doing?” I ask the screen.

It only takes me a second to realize she’s crying. This chick is seriously disturbed. Flat-out fucking crazy. I sit down in my chair to watch—because that’s my job—and grab a pen and piece of paper sitting off to the side for notes.

Jordan didn’t ask for notes, but it’s just part of my process. I’m not normally so… uninvolved in the surveillance process. I typically work with husbands—or wives—who think their wives—or husbands—are cheating on them. Occasionally I work for parents concerned about a teenager. Or some rural sheriff’s department that doesn’t have the right resources. Which was how I ended up in Wyoming last month and just… never left. And even the side jobs get notes. It’s the least I can do for those women.

“Why do you do it?” Jordan asked me that a couple years ago. He called me on Christmas. Why? I have no idea. We hadn’t talked in years. No one died. Nothing to report. Just a fucking out-of-the-blue phone call. “You’ve got more money than God. You could buy any house you want. Hell, dozens of them. Get a fucking yacht, private jet. And if there’s such a thing yet, a spot on the next space shuttle to the moon, or Mars, or wherever the fuck people book tickets for in space.”

My answer… “There’s no space shuttle anymore.”

To which Jordan responded with a grunt.

And that was the end of that.