Page 2 of Not My Problem

Damn it.

I should have called the cops, but if it was a teenager an arrest would go on their record and follow them around for years. I didn’t want that to happen, I had a soft spot for kids in trouble. I’d go investigate first. If it was just some scared kid who’d figured out that Jan’s house was empty, I’d try to roust them out first. If they were violent or on drugs or something, then I’d call the cops.

Grabbing the Swiffer sweeper from the corner of the kitchen where I’d left it, I removed the attachment and took the pole part with me to use as a weapon. As I walked through my house I unlocked my phone and pressed the number nine. I’d press the ‘one one’ to complete the emergency call if I ran into trouble.

I jogged out of my house, trying to gauge where the intruder was. A light went on in the kitchen, telling me that’s where they were, so I headed for the front door, hoping to sneak up on them. Holding my breath, I slid my key in the lock and eased the heavy door open, looking around. Everything in the living room looked just like I’d left it earlier today when I’d stopped by to water the plants.

Brandishing the broom handle in front of me, I tiptoed through the dining room to the kitchen. The intruder was standing in front of the refrigerator, head stuck inside as they looked for something. Interesting place to start. Most people didn’t keep their valuables in the fridge.

I glanced around the kitchen, noting that none of the windows were broken and the door looked untampered with. Whoever this was, they must have found the key that Jan kept underneath the flower pot on the back porch. I’d told her a million times that it wasn’t a safe hiding place.

“Stop right where you are!” I said in my most authoritative voice. “The police are on their way!”

The person stiffened, then straightened up, revealing long, curly dark hair and a slim shapely figure. She – I could see the intruder was a woman now -- lifted her hands up and turned around slowly, brown eyes wary. She was a few inches taller than me, with slim hips, a narrow waist, and breasts that were full and lush against the black tank top she wore. Her clothes looked a little loose, hanging on her frame as if she’d recently lost weight and hadn’t sized down yet.

The woman was beautiful. Younger than me, probably mid to late twenties, with sharp cheekbones, striking eyebrows, and a pronounced jaw. She reminded me of Julianna Margulies, I realized, back when she was on ER and in love with George Clooney. Something about the intruder called to me, though I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the vulnerability I saw on her face.

“Are you going to beat me with that stick?” she asked, her voice a little rough like she hadn’t used it in a while.

I frowned and waved the Swiffer at her.

“This is a private residence. You’re trespassing.”

“This is my grandmother’s house,” she said, putting her arms down and relaxing. “You’re the one who’s trespassing.”

She had lady balls, this one.

“Jan doesn’t have a granddaughter,” I said. “Which is what I’ll tell the police when they get here.”

“Let’s start over,” she suggested. “Hi, my name is Zoe Boynton. And you are?”

“Gretchen Langley,” I responded automatically. “The woman who lives here is not named Boynton. Who are you really?”

“Who are you really?” she shot back.

We stood there staring at each other, both of us agitated. Zoe relented first.

“My mother’s maiden name is Peters, Connie Peters. Jan Peters is her mother, my grandmother. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Jan’s never mentioned a granddaughter,” I said suspiciously. “Or a daughter, for that matter.”

“That’s probably because she didn’t know I existed until a couple of months ago,” Zoe said.

Suddenly I remembered the picture on the mantle of Jan and her husband flanking a young girl. Could this woman be telling the truth?

“My grandmother and my mother were estranged. My mom always told me we didn’t have any family, that everyone was dead, but after she died I found out she’d been lying. Not only about the existence of my grandmother, but also about my father, who coincidentally was also not dead.”

I blinked. What kind of crazy story was this? I pressed the button on my phone, which had gone to sleep.

“I’m going to text Jan.” Then I remembered I couldn’t text her. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“I need to email her, she’s out of the country and she didn’t want to add international service to her phone plan.”

“It’s ridiculously expensive,” Zoe said, “those damned billionaires overcharge us for everything.”

In that moment she sounded exactly like her grandmother.