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“Do you know her?” I pointed to the phone.
“No, I needed the money, plus they gave extra to come shopping and stay at the high-end hotel.”
I threw her phone down, cracked the screen, and stomped away. I do not understand what Allison is playing at. Me, Adam, trying to catch up to that dirty pussy, is becoming the joke of the century.
I can hear the voices laughing at my downfall. I finally become tired of running. The heavy dark circles under my eyes and the overgrown beard are only the physical signs proving how worn out I am. The mental marathon that is still occurring is much more damaging. I cannot trust myself, which means I shouldn’t be out in the world.
Death has become more of an ironic state of mind, coming to terms only to be halted by that green-eyed devil and now I hate every step that I take in this life. Being alive is the damnation that I feel I deserve. Have you ever heard of secondhand suicide? You want to die but never have the guts to take that next step. You hope and pray for something to happen to end your misery. Happens so quickly that the pain turns into alleviation. Thinking back on the lives I’ve taken, I wonder what it feels like to face death’s door. The unsuspecting last moments that have you face to face with the darkness. Jealousy seeps into my veins.
Adding to that pain of living, I have to wait. Mrs. DuPont takes a step forward every day, the destruction of so many lives unaccounted for. She is the definition of corruption and the female version of Jekyll and Hyde.
She let the world see her as a humanitarian. Someone to whom they could expose every part of themselves and trust that their secrets were safe. She, however, was playing the part of the puppet master. Taking advantage of their weakest parts and manipulating them and others into playing into her schemes.
I am not sure who was worse. Mitchell, who was a savage in his moves publicly, or Allison, who was only face value, raising money for their “cause” and a private therapist to broken people. When you say the right things, needy humans will open anything for you. Wallet, hands, legs… it is all with the words you say.
She was never just an emotional woman going through menopause. She is a cold, calculated, pretentious killer whose hands are clean of any blood.
I would get a quick text from my contact and be on the next flight, train, bus, by whatever means, to get to where she was. A few times, I thought I had caught up to her. I snatched a hat off a head or a scarf from around a neck, only to come face to face with a stranger. Someone who looked so similar to Allison. My chest burned with every mistake. My mind was once again playing tricks on me. They would look at me, confused and sometimes scared. One woman went as far as hitting me with her purse until I ran away. Tail between my legs, I scurried off like a hurt dog. Allison was spotted all over the globe, at the same time, but in different places, in Budapest, Istanbul, Tokyo, Osaka, and other big cities.
I am being played, and I loathe the feeling. I realize that I need more than just a picture and location. I need physical confirmation. I have to wait for her to slip up. I will stop running until my contact can verify the person in the photos is Allison.
Placing a pin in this shit, I head to the one place that I had planned on forever with the love of my life. I know I need to regroup and get my stuff together.
I am sitting at this café in Italy facing my contact. D. Author—Donald. My “Old MacDonald,” and I am “the pig.” Like Charlotte’s Web, we are linked by an unspoken bond and loyalty. He’s proved himself time and time again. He has a gift, like me, for creating a world for people to see and keeping the genuine parts of ourselves hidden.
So many thoughts have been racing through my head. I have become friends with the demons that live in the crevices of my brain. I am thirsty for a hard drink, but the buzz from the alcohol only fuels the voices more, and let me tell you, my friend, the voices are not so kind. So, I stopped quenching my thirst because they already have too much power.
Donald places his computer in front of me and has a slide show of documents playing. I don’t understand what I am looking at. To be honest, I am in a daze. The words and documents all blur together.
“I’ve got people that are searching for DuPont. She knows she is being followed. She has hired look alikes in different countries to be photographed. Causing so much speculation about where she is,” Donald tells me.
I nod and shrug. I have become so numb to it all now. Nothing to live for. I want vengeance, yet depression settles in, knowing that after this is done, there will be nothing else. No one.
“Pig!” he whispers. “Come on, pig!”
I finally look into this big man’s eyes. “Why did you meet me here?”
“You wouldn’t come home and because she has someone working for her who is better than me,” he admits.
With a hard eye roll and a huff like a toddler, I’m over it all. I just want to be a part of the world Reese rests in.
“Who could be better than you?” I shake my head.
“I don’t fucking know.” The big man is beyond annoyed. His demeanor almost matches mine. The fear of failure is building for him.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask. “You had me running like a dog. Every lead was just a secondhand version of that bitch. Some actor in a different location,” I point out.
“I need more time,” he begs.
“Here’s what you do.” I motion for him to come closer. “Expose everything. Any, and all information you get, put it out on social media, news, wherever. I don’t give a damn. Make her fucking Waldo and let the world publicly hunt her down. Make sure you say she has a major part in hurting children.”
“Pig? Are you sure about that? Don’t you want to be the one who takes the shot?” he asks.
“We all don’t get to have what we want. She needs to burn in hell for the pain she’s inflicted,” I whisper.
I slowly stand to push my chair away from the table. I pick up my coffee cup and inhale the memories… espresso with light cream… taking in the scent that brought me back from the grave only for me to watch her be buried in return.
“Pig? What about you?” My contact looks at me with concern.
