The Lets Read Podcast - 322: THE CASE THAT CHANGED ME FOREVER | 5 TERRIFYING True Scary Stories / Rain Ambience | EP 307

Episode Date: November 25, 2025

This episode includes narrations of true creepy encounters submitted by normal folks just like yourself. Today you'll experience horrifying stories about private investigators & craigslist encounters HAVE A STORY TO SUBMIT? [e-mail] FOLLOW ME ON - ►YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/c/letsreadofficial ► Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/letsread.official/ ♫ Music & Cover art: INEKT https://www.youtube.com/@inekt Today's episode is sponsored by: - Quince - Betterhelp

I'm My name's Harry. I'm a former cop and currently a private investigator. I've been based in London for the past 14 years. I won't get into the ins and outs of why I left the forest because I could write a whole book on how I feel about the Metropolitan Police. But let's just say that I felt a bit underappreciated. And in 2010, I hung up my Bobby's hat for good to make a lot of

bought more money for myself in the private sector. I worked for a couple of different firms during those first few years, mostly doing things like background checks, investigating insurance fraud, or doing asset searches for the likes of divorced lawyers. It was good money, but some of it was so boring that it actually made me misworking for the Met sometimes. Infidelity investigation was more my thing, but with it being a very sad and very dirty game,

there was only so much of it that I could stomach before I was looking for other kinds of of jobs. Corporate investigations paid well, rooting out embezzlement and things of that nature. But the thing that I really enjoyed doing was finding missing people. When an old colleague recommended it, I didn't think that it'd be a big enough earner. If a person goes missing and it's urgent, people go to the police, not a PI. But as it turned out, and for a variety of different reasons, not everyone wants the police involved. I think the best and most rewarding, you know, example of this would be the woman who hired me to find her sister, who'd unfortunately become involved in street prostitution to pay off a drug debt. Being able to get a vulnerable person

off the street and reunite them with their family was more rewarding than any paycheck. Money is nice, but if you can't look yourself in the mirror in the mornings, it's not worth the paper it's printed on, is it? And so that's what I stuck to. If there weren't any missing person jobs, I'd work the corporate side of things, which felt like actual detectives. of work. But for the most part, I worked the former, and the more I did so, the more I built a reputation for myself as being one of the best on the market. And that is how I ended up getting a call from Mr. and Mrs. Pennington. They'd said that I'd been recommended by someone they knew, a guy who used to run a housing scheme for vulnerable young people. I knew exactly who they were

talking about as I chatted with him about work stuff a few times before. I asked if they were free for a face-to-face, as I always insist on an in-person meeting before committing to any job. They said that they were free that afternoon, so a few hours after getting the call, I was sitting in their front room with a cup of tea and a biscuit, hearing all about their missing grandson, Jamie. They were a lovely old couple in their late 60s, named Connell and Marine, and they hadn't spoken to Jamie in just over a month. They'd been his legal guardian since the death of his parents when he was still just a boy, and they'd always been. been very close. But then a few months after he moved out for the first time and into his first

ever flat in Fitzrovia, he suddenly stopped answering his phone. And that wasn't like him at all, and they were scared something might have happened to him. In terms of resources, they had pictures of him, the address of the coffee shop that he'd been employed at until only recently, along with a few other tidbits that might help with finding him, which included the reason they didn't want to talk to the police, not unless it was absolutely necessary. You see, 19-year-old Jamie had always known about the untimely death of his parents, but he'd remained blissfully ignorant of the goryer details. Well, around the time of his 19th birthday, Jamie decides that he wants to know the whole truth

surrounding his parents' passing. Granddad sits him down over a couple of cans of logger and tells him all about the hit and run they'd suffered, and the driver who'd left them for dead. If he'd stuck around and called an ambulance, maybe they'd still be a little. alive. But since the cowardly bastard didn't fancy the jail time, he scarpered off without bothering to call 9-99. Someone saw them later, lying there in the road all broken and bloodied and gasping for air, then they rushed to phone an ambulance. But it was too late. In some time between the call and the ambulance's arrival, Jamie's parents passed away at the roadside. The deaths he could

handle, but the hit and run was another kettle of fish altogether. Connell and Marines said he seemed a bit down for the weeks that followed, and didn't seem himself when he came to visit. They thought that he might be on drugs, in which case they didn't want the police arresting him for possession should he be carrying any when they found him. And they said that they'd never be able to live with themselves if he went to prison off the back of their missing persons report, and I was inclined to agree with them. The likelihood of him getting a custodial sentence for a first-time drug offense was slim, but earning himself a criminal record would definitely affect his employment prospects, not to mention his chances of securing a place at

university. My services wouldn't come cheap, but having me find him before the police did might save Jamie a hell of a lot of trouble in the future. So I took a deposit, thanked them for the cup of tea in the biscuit, and then promised Conno and Maureen that I'd find their grandson. My first stop was the coffee shop Jamie was working at before he disappeared. I drove over to Fitzrovia, found the cafe and then asked one of the girls behind the counter if she knew him. She didn't, but she quickly found someone who did, and in exchange for buying something, she agreed to sit down and have a chat with me. Jamie's grandparents had made him out to be quite the innocent young thing, one who might have

gotten himself in trouble thanks to his unfamiliarity with drink, drugs, and the London nightlife. But according to the nice girl in the coffee shop, that was not the Jamie she knew. Firstly, I was under the impression that Jamie had only stopped going to work at the coffee shop because he'd disappeared, but that wasn't the case. He'd actually handed in his notice, under perfectly normal circumstances about two months prior, apparently after having gotten another job elsewhere. But the location of that employment, along with descriptions of his behavior, painted a very different picture of young Jamie.

Apparently, Jamie was quite the party animal, and was far from the naive teenage. age boy his grandparents had made him out to be. And that's par for the course, I suppose. A couple of sweet older people like that aren't likely to tell you that their grandchild is a bad kid, and that's assuming they knew what he was up to in the first place. And by the sounds of it, he was up to quite a bit. His ex-college told me that there was rarely a night that he wasn't drinking, dancing, or otherwise getting himself into wild adventures. I was told that he had a heart of gold. When it came to his lifestyle, he was quite the libertine. and far from the angel I'd first thought him to be.

And that brings me to his choice of employment following the coffee shop. On more than one occasion, Jamie had turned up to do a morning shift at the coffee shop after dancing and taking drugs all night. He'd apparently pulled it off with style, but when he started living a full-on nocturnal lifestyle, it was clearly time to consider alternative employment. And so off he went, to work in a nightclub.

As former colleagues said that the place had been a regular haunted, of his, one of those quote-unquote secret underground bars that's only known by its Soho street address. To her, it sounded like he was there so often he was practically a piece of furniture, and in the end, one of the managers offered him a trial shift. Shaking cocktails and chatting up punters sounded a lot more his speed, so it was bittersweet to hear that he was leaving. But after some leaving drinks at a local pub, she wished him luck, and off he went to turn his party lifestyle into a profession. The girl at the coffee shop was only too happy to help me after hearing about him going missing,

and after wishing me luck in finding him, she gave me the name of the bar that Jamie had been working at. And then off I drove to Soho to talk to the people at that bar. The place didn't open up until nine at night, so I went home for a few hours before driving back. I then had to try and talk my way past the bouncer who wouldn't let me in without paying the exorbitant 20 quid. non-member's entrance fee. And he eventually relents and radios for one of the supervisors to come out

and have a chat with me. But she takes one look at one of the pictures of Jamie I had on my phone and tells me that she's never seen him before in her entire life. She was quite prickly with how she said it too. And then before I could ask anything else, she walked straight back inside without saying another word to me. But she didn't need to, because I knew she was lying. When you show somebody a picture of someone, and they've truly never seen them before, they actually look and think for a good couple of seconds before giving you a definitive answer. If they do recognize the person, they always answer much faster, and generally speaking, they exhibit a tell, be it raised eyebrows or a softening of their features, which lets you know that there's been that recognition.

This supervisor girl ticked both boxes, fast answer, and there was the instant softening of the facial features when she looked at that picture. It was clear to me that she knew Jamie. So then, why was she trying to hide it? I ended up paying the 20 entrance fee just to get a feel for the place Jamie had apparently spent so much time in. I spent about half an hour at the bar, sipping at a bottle of some fancy overpriced beer, and asking various people who approached the bar if they knew this guy called Jamie. Some knew him, and were open about this, whereas others gave me the same cold shoulders as the supervisor did, who spent the whole time giving me dirty looks from behind the bar. And I knew it was only a matter of time before she got the doorman to

ask me to leave, so while I still could, I asked one of the barmaids if I could talk to her manager. But as soon as he walked into the bar, the supervisor intercepted him. And I couldn't exactly hear what she said because of the volume of the music, but it could tell that she was spinning some line about me harassing customers or whatever she was complaining about. And by the time he got to me, I thought the manager was just going to ask me to leave. But instead, he started asking me for credentials to prove that I was a PI. The only thing I ever carry are my business cards, but they're nice and expensive looking and always do the trick. So all I had to do was show him one of them, and he invited me into his office for a little chat. It turns out I was

right about the supervisor. She knew Jamie. Everyone behind the bar did, and he was easily their favorite customer, too. That's why she was so protective in claiming not to know him, and regarding that protectiveness, it was something I needed to know. The last time they'd talked to Jamie, so a couple of weeks prior, he hadn't seemed himself. Usually he was well up for the party, lit up the room when he arrived, and was all hugs and kisses with anyone he knew personally. But on this occasion, he sat by the bar, not really socializing, and told one of the bar barmaids that he was waiting for someone. A very anxious-looking, Jamie also told the barmaid that he was hoping to straighten something

out with the person he was waiting for. But then after fiddling with his phone for a few minutes, most likely swapping text with someone, Jamie told the barmaid that he might not see them for a while, and then off he went. The bar's manager also went to tell me that half the reason the supervisor then so defensive was that just a few days prior, a guy had come in looking for Jamie. When the super asked who the man was, she'd never seen him at the bar before, he got very defensive and started demanding to know where Jamie was. He only left after two bouncers came downstairs to walk him out,

and the manager said that his supervisor thought I was another one of those guys looking for poor, defenseless Jamie. They were all worried about him, and they were going to be devastated when they heard that he hadn't been checking in with his grandparents. I also offered to put the manager in touch with Connell and Maureen, just to give some peace of mind that I had their grandson's best interest at heart. He declined, but appreciated the offering and said it did indeed do a lot to reassure him, and he also added that if he had to make a guess, he'd suggest Camden,

where an old regular customer-slash-boyfriend of Jamie's lived. And that's how I found out Jamie was involved in prostitution. The job that had more suited his lifestyle wasn't behind the bar of that trendy underground place in Soho, or at least not behind the bar anyway. The employment that had been getting him a load more cash than that coffee shop and that allowed him to mostly work at night was sex work. As you can imagine, this complicated the situation a great deal. For the most part, people who sell their bodies often put themselves in potentially dangerous situations

on a near-nightly basis, and they also tend to deal with some very shady people. Jamie could have pissed off the wrong client, ended up in debt with a pimp or a deal or simply gone home with someone who took their little games too far, maybe even fatally far. The absolute best I could hope for was that Jamie really had gone to shack up with this older customer or partner, whoever he turned out to be, and was keeping himself out of trouble. It also meant that I could focus my search around Camden, which wasn't quite the needle in a haystack situation I thought that it might be. I spent about three days trotting around Camden, sitting in cafes, stopping in the pubs and

keeping Jamie's grandparents updated all the while. I didn't tell them all the stuff about his nightly activities or his newfound method of making money, but I did confirm their suspicion that he'd taken his party lifestyle a bit too far. That was the bad news. But when it came to the good news, there was plenty to be happy about. One of Jamie's closest friends, the manager of that bar that he'd been a regular at, had given me my biggest and most reliable clue yet to his whereabouts. I was close, and I could feel it, and they were happy to hear it. On that third day of hanging around Camden, keeping my eyes peeled and stopping at the occasional pub to ask the smokers outside if they recognized Jamie, I saw him. I was sitting in some coffee shop wondering if I was just wasting my time going around Camden instead of following other leads.

When a young man walked into the coffee shop to collect an order for pickup, he didn't use the name, Jamie. He said, Sean. and I didn't twig that it was him until I looked up and recognized a flash of bleached blonde hair under the baseball cap he was wearing. He had sunglasses on too, but they weren't big or garish enough to distract me from the facial features that I've been looking at for almost a week by this point. The second he left the coffee shop, I started following him, keeping my distance, but tailing him all the same. We walked all the way down Camden High Streets and then turned on to Pratch Street in the direction of St. Martin's Gardens. I kept my distance as I watched him walk down

the path of a large three-story house. Then when he knocked on the door, it was answered by an older man he swapped kisses with before being welcomed inside. And that was Jamie's older lover. It had to be. So as far as I was concerned, I'd found him. Mission accomplished, I thought. It was late in the afternoon, so I called Jamie's grandparents and let them know that I'd found their grandson. I then asked if they wanted me to approach him or simply keep track of him so they can make their move whenever they were ready. I recommended they'd do it soon because it seemed like he was in trouble with someone and there was a chance that he might move on somewhere else if he thought he was being followed. We talked on speakerphone so I could hear Connell and Maureen weighing up their

options before they decided what they were going to do. In the end, they asked me to keep tabs on Jamie for just one more day and that they'd have a definite answer by tomorrow. Now, I wasn't about to say no. Extra hours meant extra pay, so I parked a few houses down and then stayed up all night making sure that Jamie didn't go anywhere. The next morning, I got a coffee and some breakfast delivered to my car and was confident that no one had entered or exited the house Jamie was in. I stayed there until early afternoon, at which point I decided to give Maureen and Conno another call to see if they'd made their minds up yet.

When no sooner had I pressed dial that I heard, The number you have dialed is not currently available. Please hang up and try again. I thought Connell's phone was out of battery or something, so I gave it about 10 to 15 minutes then called back, only to get the same automated message. I started to get a bit worried, because it wouldn't be the first time some scumbag

had targeted a person's family as a way of getting to them personally, so I drove over to Marine and Connell's house to make sure that they were all right. I parked outside, walked up the path, but when I knocked on the door, neither Maureen nor Connell answered. Instead, it was a woman that I'd never seen before, who at first didn't seem to recognize their names. It was only after I explained who I was and that I'd visited none a week prior that she seemed to remember who I was talking about.

She then explained that she was house-sitting for them while they were on holiday. I remember asking, they've gone on holiday, in total disbelief, because I'd spoken to them only just the previous evening. The woman then explained she didn't know what I was talking about, and that she was just the house sitter and how she was sorry that she couldn't be of more help. I felt so confused it was like feeling a migraine coming on, and I had to double-check everything to make sure that I hadn't totally misheard her. Connell and Maureen were the homeowners, yes, but they'd gone on holiday that very same morning,

apparently after having arranged it months prior. I told her there must have been some mistake, that they couldn't have gone on. and holiday. And at that, the woman started to get visibly agitated. She told me there was no mistake and that she couldn't help me and that I should try calling Connell and Marine again once they'd landed. The dead phones were probably because they were on the plane and switched them off. I walked away more confused than when I arrived and after trying his mobile a few more times, Connell still hadn't switched it back on. My mind was ticking over big time, wondering why a man would switch his phone off and go on holiday when he's just paid a lot of money to have me

find his grandson. And the more I thought about it, the more I got this horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. I spent the next hour or so weighing up my options so I could take the best possible course of action for all involved. And in the end, I settled on warning young Jamie that his grandparents might be in trouble. I drove back into Camden, parked up by that St. Martin's gardens and then walked down the path of the house that I'd seen Jamie walk into. I rang the door above first and it sounded a little bit too loud, but the door wasn't all the way closed, so I gave it a knock, only to find it creaked open a bit under the force. My bad feeling was absolutely peaking by then.

I'd been on the job long enough to know something was very, very wrong if a front door hadn't been shut properly, and there was no reply from anyone inside when I started calling out for somebody. I started to search the house, going from room to room until I eventually got to the master bedroom on the second floor. I pushed open the door, and there they were. Jamie, along with his older customer-turned-boyfriend, were lying on the bed, and from the looks of things, they'd been butchered. There was blood everywhere, so much of it that I knew that there was no chance either was alive. But I could also tell from the way they looked that they'd only been dead for maybe a matter of hours. Of course, I called the police, waited at the scene for them to arrive, and then told my story

twice in detail. First to a uniformed officer, and then to an officer from CID once it had been established that two murders had taken place. I didn't need to be fingerprinted or anything because as a former Met Officer, my fingerprints are on file. But I did have to give an extensive interview describing exactly how I came to be involved in the case to begin with. Then the more I talked about with detectives in the weeks and months that followed, the more I started to realize what had actually been happening. Connell and Maureen weren't just really Jamie's grandparents, and they probably weren't even named Connell and Maureen either. The woman's whose house they used in their ruse told us they'd turned up one day and gained it.

her an offer she couldn't refuse. Clear out the house for a few days and hand over the keys, or they'd burn it down with her in it. They gave her some money as a reward, or more like something to make sure she stuck to the story that'd given her. But when the police got involved, she was so scared that she handed over the money right away. Ten thousand pounds, untouched and still wrapped in plastic in a shoe box. They'd completely pulled the wool over my eyes, in doing so, they conned me into tracking down a person. They want a dead. And these murders went unsolved. It wasn't clear if all the butchery meant that it was a personal thing, or if a professional had dressed the scene up to look like it was a personal thing in order

to confuse the police. It looked like someone had savagely attacked Jamie and his lover while they slept, but there was also no sign of forced entry and no evidence of anyone else having been in the house, save for the stab wounds on their body. Whoever had done it might have done so right under my nose as I was watching the house that night, or they'd waited until I was no longer on the scene before slipping in through the front door with a lock pick or a copy of the key. And aside from the obvious details, the whole thing was a total mystery. Forensics even checked over that house that I'd first met the man for any DNA or hair indication of who Maureen or Connell might be.

But they'd had the place completely scrub before allowing the woman to return home, and with the owner herself saying it smelled like a hospital for days afterwards. The identity of Jamie's lover also remained a mystery, or at least outside of a select few it did. He'd been a well-to-do barrister, someone with a lot of money and someone whose family wanted to keep his name out of the papers once it had emerged who he'd been cheating on his wife with. They filed all kinds of injunctions with the high court so that when all was said and done, Jamie's murder was relegated to just a few column inches that was never followed. followed up on. In the past, I've spoken to private investigators who've talked about having

that one case that always sticks with you, and for a long time I wondered which case would end up being mine. But after Jamie, I don't wonder anymore. He is that case, and who will always be with me until the day I die. As the chilly mornings arrive and holiday plans start to take shape, I find myself craving a wardrobe that's not only stylish and comfy, but also practical for everyday wear. And for me, that's where Quince shines, plus they make fantastic gifts too. This season's lineup is simple, but smart and easy with Quince,

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that last this season with Quince. Go to quince.com slash read for free shipping on your order and 365-day returns. Now available in Canada, too. That's Q-U-I-N-C-E.com slash read. shipping and 365-day returns. Quince.com slash read. I've got all that I know. Almost 25 years ago now, when I first moved to Apolline, I had a job prospect completely fall through on me. I had rent to pay, groceries and gas to buy, and since I only had a couple of hundred bucks and savings to tide me over, I was very stressed about it. But as luck would have it,

I'd somehow managed to find myself an awesome roommate to live with, and he turned out to be a huge help. Darrell was a big computer nerd at the time when not everyone was hooked up to the internet, so when I told him all about my money troubles, he said that he'd try his best to find me some respectable employment. I didn't think there was much that he could do. I mean, this was the early 2000s, so job websites were practically non-existent back then. But to my surprise, and within just a few short hours of his promise, Darrell delivered. When he told me he'd found something suitable, I was halfway to telling him, I'm not standing outside a bank dressed as a dollar bill. But he just laughed and pointed at his computer screen before telling me to read through the post.

Basically, a guy on Craigslist was offering $100 a day to anyone who'd help him clear out the garage of an old house he'd just purchased, and they didn't require anything but a can-do attitude and a willingness to work hard. At the time, it seemed like great money for a simple job, so I rushed to contact the guy before someone else did. It turns out the guy's name was Rick, and he made his money flipping old houses around Abilene. He seemed like an okay dude, too, so once he was happy that I was the right guy for the job, we arranged a date and time for me to drive over to the house. I got there just before 8 a.m. Then Rick and I had ourselves some coffee before he showed me in the garage. It was only then that it made sense why he was offering a hundred

bucks a day. To say the place was a mess would be the understatement of the century. The trash was literally floor to ceiling in the back corners, like these miniature mountains of old toys, furniture, and appliances that were covered in dust and cobwebs. The whole floor was covered in it too, and we had to haul out a ton of old crap just to be able to walk our way into the garage. Everything that was straight up trash went into a dumpster Rick had rented, whereas anything we figured that we might be able to renovate got lined up in the driveway. And then after a couple of hours, we managed to uncover some cabinets that lined one of the walls. Rick starts opening them up to see what's in there, and then he sort of rummages around

for a minute before saying, well, what do we have here? And he pulled out a wooden box. about half the size of a shoebox, and even though it was covered in dust and dirt, I could see how fancy it was. Rick sets it down and open it up and inside is what looked like some kind of antique six-shooter with similarly fancy engravings on it. Rick started saying how it might be silver-plated, but even if not, it still had to be worth a few thousand bucks at auction, and by looking at it, I had to agree. That thing looked like it should have been in a museum or something, and and I had no doubt in my mind that a collector would pay top dollar for it, maybe even more if its original owner had been someone famous or historical.

I congratulated him on his find and then got back to work, hauling stuff out of the garage. Now, we continued on working for the next couple of hours, then just after 1 p.m., Rick asked if I was hungry. I was so starved I could have eaten my own fist. When I agreed it was time for a lunch break, Rick gave me 50 bucks and said if I'd draw drove to his favorite barbecue place, lunch was on him, and I could keep the change. And let me tell you, barbecue always tastes better when it's free. There's a science to it. It has to be. And so I took us 50 bucks, bought a bunch of barbecue, and then drove back to the house with two

bags full of brisket, links, pickles, and potato salad. I parked my car, then started walking up the driveway, and here's where you kind of need to know something about the setup. There was a crap ton of junk piled up against the garage door, and we weren't even halfway through clearing out all that crap yet, so I had to walk all the way around this big old garage to the back door to get inside. And so there I go, hauling these two big bags of barbecue, then when it got to the doorway, there's Rick with his back to me. I tell him, hey man, back with lunch. But he doesn't turn around, not right away. And I don't know exactly what it was about him, but I remember getting this bad feeling right there when he didn't respond to me. We've been working all morning and well into the

afternoon, too, and if he felt anything like I did, then the fact that he didn't turn around and jump at the bag of food was just weird. I gave it maybe three or four seconds and then called out to him again, saying, yo, Rick, I'm back. What's the hold up? Let's eat. And he kind of jerked his head to the side, like he'd only just heard me, and then slowly started to turn around. But as he did, I noticed the open box on a dusty county nearby, the way. The one that held that six-shooter. Only now, the box was empty, and the bullets were gone. Seconds later, I see the gun in his hand, but I see this little trickle of blood coming out of his nose, too, and one of his eyes was very bloodshot, and I'm not talking like smoking

reefer bloodshot either. I'm talking smashed in the face with a baseball-back kind of bloodshot, like so bloodshot it almost looked black. I figured he was going through some kind of medical emergency and I was about to ask if he needed me to call 911. But then the next thing, he kind of halfway raises that six-shooter to point it at me, but then stops himself. I can see him struggling, like he's fighting the urge or something, so without another thought, I just dropped the bags, turned, and ran like hell. I bolted it all the way out to my car, hearing two loud gunshots,

and then this almighty crash along the way. I remember thinking that he must have fell into a pile of junk to make that kind of crash. I was just about to book it too because I didn't want to be there if Rick got up and came out shooting again. But then I realized that if I did just up and leave without warning anyone, it'd be on me of someone ended up getting shot. I had my own gun in my glove compartment, so I grabbed it, kept my eyes trained on the garage and the pathway leading from it, and then started whistling, double loud, till someone appeared, asking, what the hell? was going on. I told them to call the cops in EMS because someone had gone crazy and they had a gun. They rushed back inside and then not long after, I heard sirens getting louder before the

cop car skidded around the corner. I put my gun away before they got out and then once they did, I directed the two officers toward the garage where Rick still was. They appeared around the side and then I hear them yelling things like police come out with your hands up. I didn't hear any shots, gave me hope, then one of the cops came out saying Rick needed an ambulance, and I was relieved to hear that he wasn't outright dead. But I was still very worried about him for obvious reasons. He looked in a bad way when I saw him, nose all bloody with his eyes all messed up, so he was obviously hurting in some way. But then the way he'd almost had to fight himself to keep from shooting me, that made me think something had gone wrong in his brain. And somehow, even though I almost

just took a bullet from an antique pistol, the idea of poor old Rick losing his mind in some way was even scarier to me than the idea of getting shot. And once EMS had arrived and the cops had secured that gun, one of them came over to talk to me about what had happened. I told him everything, from start to finish, how Rick had been a perfectly nice dude right up until he hadn't, and how whatever happened to him seemed to happen right as I got back. I knew that because the blood coming out of his nose hadn't even started dripping off his chin yet. But aside from that, I didn't know a thing about what happened to Rick or why he started acting the way he did. I saw the EMS guys wheeling Rick to an ambulance. He didn't look conscious, and he had one of those

oxygen-masks things on. I kept asking EMTs if he was going to be okay, but they said they didn't know. After I got into my car and drove home, that was pretty much the last I heard of it for about a month, and then out of the blue, Rick gives me a call. He said he was sorry for frightening me and wanted to stop by my place to give me the hundred bucks he owed me for the day's work, even though I only did half. I told him that wasn't necessary

and that I was just glad to hear that it was okay, but he insisted on stopping over to thank me in person because if it wasn't for me, he might not be alive. I told him if that was the case, he was free to stop by whenever he liked, and when he did, he had more than just a hundred bucks. for me. When he stopped by, Rick told me what the doctor said. He told him he started feeling

funny right around the time he picked up the gun. He'd been bored waiting for me to come back with lunch and decided to get out that six-shooter again. But that's where things started getting a little hazy. When he saw me in the doorway, he got scared because he didn't recognize who I was. And then once he did, he was already halfway to pointing the gun at me. And like I suspected, it was like he had to battle himself not to do it, like his brain and body were arguing back and forth with each other. Last thing he said he remembered was seeing me run off. After that, he didn't remember nothing

until he woke up in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. I sat there with my jaw on the floor, and even now, I can't really imagine how that must have felt for him, losing control of your own body, and that's scarier than anything from any horror movie, at least anything I've ever seen anyway. When he was done telling me about the medical side of things, Rick turned and reached into his jacket that he had slung over my kitchen chair. He then pulled out an envelope that contained

way, way more than just a hundred bucks. When I realized how much money was in there, easily over two grand, he started telling me about putting that gun he found up for auction. He didn't tell me how much that thing actually sold for. He said some collector stepped in before he even hit the podium and offered almost double the buyout price just as secure it is theirs. And I remember laughing and saying, I knew it. I knew that thing looked expensive, and then as much as I wanted to turn down his offer of the money, Lord knows I needed it. Rick then sent something about how, if it wasn't for me, he might not be alive to put the gun up for auction in the first place, and he figured the least he could do was share some of his

unexpected earnings with the man who saved his life. And I don't think I'd go that far personally. the doctors and nurses and paramedics saved Rick's life, whereas I was just about ready to shoot him if he appeared from that garage pointing that pistol, so I don't think I can claim too much credit. But I guess I did help get the ambulance there in a roundabout way by calling the cops, so I understood where he was coming from. After that, we went our separate ways, and he'd been a memory ever since. I still think about him from time to time, though,

wondering how he's doing and if that medical thing ever flared up again. But I also think about how it was a hell of a time for it to kick in for the first time right when I was coming back with lunch and he was holding that gun. Because maybe on another day, the cops show up hours, maybe even days later, and we're both lying there dead as doornails. All because the wrong thing happened and the wrong place at the wrong time. I have always been fascinated with detective stories. The idea of solving mysteries and uncovering secrets was thrilling to me.

And so after I graduated college with a degree in criminal justice, I immediately started working towards earning my license. I found a firm that had coached me through the application process while giving me some training, and then once I was fully insured, my first real job came sooner than I expected. A woman hired our firm to follow her husband because she thought that he was cheating on her, and since it was little more than a basic tailing job, my boss gave the case to me. I was excited to get started, but deep down, I was very nervous too. It was my first real case, and I really didn't want to mess it up.

But the first few days I followed that husband without incident. I kept my distance, blending into the background as best I could as I figured out his routine. I trailed him in my beat-up car, hand on foot, depending on where he went, jotting down notes in a little pad that I carried. Nothing he did seemed suspicious yet, but I figured it was just a matter of time. On the first day, I parked a block away from his office and watched him through a windshield as he arrived. Then during lunch, I sat across the street from the sandwich shop that he walked to, sipping coffee while keeping an eye on him through the window. That evening, when he went home, I called it a day,

feeling just a little frustrated with the complete lack of progress. The second day was essentially the same as well. I followed him to the sandwich place, and then after work I tailed him from a few cars back, careful to not get too close. And by the third day, I felt almost comfortable, and I followed him to a bar after work, slipping inside and taking a seat at the opposite end of the counter. I ordered a soda and kept him in the corner of my eyes. He laughed with his buddies over

beers. He didn't meet any women or act sneaky, but I stayed patient. I knew investigations like this took time, and I wanted to do the right thing by my boss as well as our client. But everything changed on the fourth day. The husband went to the bar after work, but around 11 p.m., instead of calling a cab, he wandered outside and started walking downtown. I remember following him on foot, keeping a block between us thinking, this is way outside his regular pattern, and he's got a few beers in the tank.

This is it. I got him. We moved through the busy street together and then turned into a quieter residential area with old brick buildings and narrow side streets. I kept on his tail, then watched as he suddenly turned a sharp corner. Not wanting to let him slip away,

I sped up a little. But when I reached the corner, corner he was gone. The street in front of me was lined up with parked cars and closed storefronts, but no people. I slowed down, scanning every doorway and shadow in the hopes of spotting him, and my gut told me that he couldn't have gone far, so I kept going. After maybe 50 yards or so, I stopped at the mouth of a dark alleyway on my left-hand side. It was narrow, barely wide enough for two people to pass, and the dim streetlights didn't reach far inside. I took a few steps down it, straining my eyes against that darkness when a hand shot out and grabbed me by the arm.

Before I could pull back, my shoulder hit the brick wall as I was shoved against it. I tried to fight, but then I saw the knife and froze. It was dark, and it all happened so fast that I didn't realize who it was, but when I did, my blood ran cold. It wasn't just some street thug looking to rob me. It was him, that husband. He leaned in until his face was just inches from mine, and I could smell the booze on his breath and see the anger in his eyes.

He kept the knife's tip digging into my shirt just enough to let me feel the sharp point, and he didn't say anything at first. Just glared at me, letting the silence stretch out until my knees felt weak. He then leaned in just a little closer, and in a low voice, told me he cut me open and bleed me like a pig if I didn't tell him who I was, and why I'd been following him. As the knife twitched against my stomach and I imagined the pain of it slicing through me,

I'd never been so scared in my whole life. I tried to think fast and keep calm, but it was impossible. I decided to lie, hoping I could talk my way out of it saying I was just walking home and I had no idea what he's talking about. But he didn't believe a word. And without warning, he pushed the knife forward just a little and I felt that blade bite into my stomach.

Not deep. but enough to slice the skin. I felt a hot, searing pain flare up, and I remember clutching at the wall behind me as I begged him to stop. I looked down to see blood starting to come through my shirt, and the sight of it made my head start to spin, but the husband barely seemed to blink.

And I couldn't lie anymore, not with that knife ready to cut me open. And so I confessed everything in a rush, and my voice was cracking as I spilled all the beans. I told him I was a private investigator. hired by his wife because she thought he was cheating. My whole body shook as I spoke, and I waited for him to plunge that knife in deeper.

But he didn't. Instead, he just laughed as he admitted it. He was cheating, just like she suspected, but he didn't care if she knew. She'd never leave him because she knew exactly what had happened if she did. He'd track her down, he'd find her, and he'd kill her. The way he said it so calmly and certain was when he'd leave him. the most disturbing things I've ever seen, even after all these years. Then to my confusion,

the husband looked at me with a sort of glint in his eye and started congratulating me. He said I'd done a great job in ensuring his wife would get the crap beaten out of her that night, and every night after, until he felt she'd paid for wasting her money on me. The sarcasm in his voice cut as deep as that knife did, and I pictured her at home, having placed all of her faith in me, blissfully unaware of what I'd just said into motion, and the guilt hit me like a ton of bricks. I guess the husband was satisfied with a look that came over my face because he stepped back and put the knife away, but his threats weren't over.

He warned me that if he ever caught me following him again, he'd do worse than just cut me. And then he turned and walked off into the darkness, leaving me shaken and breathless against the wall. I staggered out of that alley, my hand pressed against the shallow cut in my stomach. My legs could barely hold me up as I made my way home, and the husband's words were looping in my head the whole way. I didn't go to the hospital. The cut wasn't bad enough to need stitches, and I was too ashamed to let anyone see what had happened. I'd failed my first job, got myself caught like an amateur, and I'd put my client in danger in the process.

The thought of facing a doctor were just about anything. one for that matter made me feel sick with shame. And for a week I barely left my apartment. The cut healed slowly and as cliche as it sounds, the real damage was inside. I couldn't sleep without seeing the husband's face or the knife flashing in front of me. The nightmares had me waking up sweating with that laugh ringing in my ears. I thought about what he'd done to his wife and that guilt aided me. I'd taken her case to help her, but instead I'd made everything worse.

I thought about calling her, warning her or something, but what could I say? I had already done enough harm. I avoided mirrors because I didn't want to see the stupid coward staring back at me. I lost my appetite, jumped at every loud noise, and I even considered quitting. I could just pack up and find some safe, boring job where no one held a knife to my gut. But something stopped me. I'd wanted this career for too long to give up after one mistake, no matter how bad that mistake was. When I finally dragged myself back to work, I braced myself for the worst. I figured my

boss would chew me out for screwing up so badly on the first job, but he didn't. Instead, he called me into his office and just asked if I was okay. And his voice was gentle, not angry, and that surprised me. I told him what happened, how I'd been caught, cut, and threatened. He listened, nodding like he'd heard stories like mine before, and then told me bad things sometimes happen on jobs like that. He said it wasn't my fault that the husband was a monster, and he wouldn't think less of me if I decided to walk away. And for a moment, I considered leaving the danger and shame behind, but ultimately I shook my head. I couldn't quit. Not yet. That night in the alley had shaken me to my core, but it also taught me something I'd never forget. Messing up could cost more than just

my pride. It could hurt people who depended on me. I went back to work with that lesson. burned into me. That fear didn't vanish overnight and neither did the guilt, but over time, I was able to push it all to the back of my mind. I took on small jobs at first, tracking down missing debtors and whatnot, and I started carrying a pocket knife. Not to use, but feel safer. And just in case you're wondering, in California, you need to carry $1 million in liability insurance if providing armed services. Over time, I got better, more careful and more confident. But But the memory of that first job never left me, though. It was a warning I carried through every job, pushing me to be smarter, tougher, and ready for anything.

In my senior year of high school, my dad said that if I got myself a job to pay for gas money, he'd give me the keys to his old Dodge. Then when a friend of mine said that she'd found babysitting jobs on Craigslist, I started looking there to see if I could find anything nearby. But while I was looking, I found a kind of sitting job that was somehow both very familiar and very different to babysitting, dog sitting. And the first time I saw an ad, I sort of thought, no way, this is actually an option. I was excited to see an ad like that, not because it meant taking care of a dog, and I am very much a dog person,

but because a lot of the babysitter wanted posts said applicants needed experience. I had zero experience babysitting, but my family had a dog, so I felt confident saying that I had the wherewithal to take care of a pooch while its owner was away. I called the person who posted the ad and ended up sitting for this boxer dog named Charlie for a few hours, and then the rest is history. I was hooked. These days, I run a dog grooming and walking service in upstate New York. I won't try to milk this for free advertising, I promise, and dogs are my whole entire universe right now. But it hasn't always been smooth sailing, and back during my dog sitting days, I had a few close calls that had me rethinking my entire business strategy. When I told my dad I could find dog-sitting jobs online, he seemed super skeptical about it, and I guess he had to be right. This was back before absolutely everything was done online, so the idea of his teenage daughter

heading over to some total stranger's house seemed crazy to him. But once I assured him I wouldn't travel too far, and wouldn't come home too late at night, and wouldn't sit for anyone I hadn't talked with extensively on the phone first, he relented. I didn't just say all that to placate him either, and it might sound harsh, but I didn't respond to ads posted from rougher parts of the city or the wider county. I had my brand new truck to worry about, and I had to drive home late from these places, too, so I was very discerning when it came to the jobs I took. But I was even more the fool, I guess, because that's what had me responding to this one ad

without any reservations at all. The address was a real nice part of town, with big front lawns, three-story, homes with things like fountains or statues in the driveway. That was another nice part about dog sitting too. Some of the houses you got to visit and make believe like it was yours. So the second I saw that address, I was down. First off, this ad was offering $80 for just four hours from 7 p.m. until 11 p.m. And with most other dog sitting jobs paying about 30 to 40 bucks for the same sort of hours, I should have seen that as the red flag that it was, I guess. But I also figured, hey, these rich people, of course, they're going to pay more than the average. So being

greedy, I read on and instantly I understood why they were offering so much cash. They had a very boisterous, borderline, hyperactive two-year-old named Rufus, who was a Great Dane. And for those that don't know, and I guess the clue is kind of in the name, but Great Danes are very well, great. They're big dogs, I mean really big dogs. The kind of dogs you see at a distance and think, what am I even looking at here? Is that a small horse or am I tripping? And at the dog rumors, young Great Danes are the only dog we still find genuinely intimidating because they can be very, very boisterous, and they do not know their own strength very well either. And even back then, I knew that they'd be a lot to handle. But with my heart set on playing some make-believe in that

big old house and maybe getting to make friends with a dog that outweighs me by about 50 pounds, I thought to myself, why not? And gave him a call. And the lady I spoke to was super nice, and we talked all about Rufus and what a handful he could be. She said that, in her opinion, the best course of action would be for her to lock Rufus in the home's kitchen with a bunch of food and water. I'm five foot nothing, and I've been that tall since I was 17, so even back then, I've been in serious trouble if old Rufus took a disliking to me. So, after being secured in the kitchen, it was my job to just sit in the TV room and listen to make sure Rufus wasn't freaking out too hard that his mommy and daddy were away.

I asked if I could meet him first, at least from the other side of the toddler gate that they installed in the kitchen. Rufus would be able to smell me in the other room, and unless he knew I was cool, he would almost certainly freak out if he thought a stranger was in the house. The lady said that was fine. She just didn't want him up close just in case he knocked me down and I wanted to sue. I laughed and said I'd never do that, and she laughed too, but still said you never know. And once we were done, I thanked the lady for the opportunity and said that I couldn't wait to meet her in person. She thanked me in return, and then said that she'd see me in a

couple of days. And I was genuinely excited. It was a special job with a special dog and a really special house, too. But if I'd have had any inkling of what I almost walked into, there's no way I'd have showed up that night. I drove over in my dad's old Dodge, and the house was just as incredible as I expected it to be. The lady was just as nice, too, and while her husband was getting ready upstairs for their date night, she walked me into the kitchen to go over some ground rules. I didn't want to be rude and interrupt, but literally the second she walked into the kitchen, I was thinking, where's Rufus?

The lady went over all the house rules, which was pretty much all the standard stuff. no boys, no trying to fill the hot tub, and no ordering paper views on the TV. But then when she was done, I asked, so, uh, where's Rufus? And without missing a beast, she says, Rufus is in the basement. To which I respond, okay, well, can I meet him? But her face kind of just drops a little before saying back, that won't be happening, I'm afraid, sorry. There was a pause before I respond.

Uh, that wasn't part of the agreement. I'd much prefer if you could introduce us a little so he doesn't mind me being here while all of you head out. And that's when the lady says, me and my husband talked about that, and we decided it wasn't a very good idea. I'd done enough dog-sitting jobs at that point to know that actually the reverse isn't a good idea. And if they really wanted me to be safe and Rufus to be chill, she should introduce me so he got an idea of my scent and, that I was a friend. I made my point firmly, but politely, enough to think that the woman might have actually changed her mind.

But when I was done, she looked at me with this total stone-cold look in her eyes and told me, no. I didn't even really know what to say at that point. I never had anyone just sort of turn on me like that before. Sure, it was just a minor change to our arrangement, but what bothered me so much more was the way this woman's attitude just seemed to totally see. switch. She'd been the nicest lady ever up until then, and then when I insisted on meeting Rufus, she started acting like I was asking to poop in their washing machine, this super

firm no, like I was completely in the wrong for even asking. The only thing I could think to ask was, why do you guys keep Rufus in the basement? Are you sure he's going to be okay down there? She didn't lose her temper with me, not entirely, but she did march over to the basement door to gesture to it like there was nothing wrong. And she says, there's the basement. Rufus is downstairs. All you have to do is keep your ears peeled for any signs of distress and call us if there are any. What's so hard to understand? I remember looking at the basement door and feeling super uneasy that all I could hear was silence. 90% of the time when a dog is locked away like that and they know a stranger is in the house, they start barking and scratching. And even if they're a

well-behaved dog, they might not bark, but there sure is hell coming to the door to take a sniff of whoever's on the other side. So the fact that there was total silence coming from the other side had me questioning if there was even a dog down there to begin with. I think by then my suspicion meter was dipping into the red zone. Alarm bells were blaring in my head, and it was like a whole Chinese Olympic opening ceremony of red flags waving in front of me. I knew I wanted to leave right then and there. If they were willing to switch up the agreement at the last minute, there was also a chance they'd choose not to pay me the agreed amount of money, too. And so my foot is already halfway out the door, and I'm thinking, if I do end up

sitting for this family, it's probably going to be a one-time only thing. And then without even me really thinking about it, I just blurted out. Is there even a dog down there? I wasn't even fully invested in the idea that there wasn't a dog down there. In fact, it was more like I was concerned about some kind of animal cruelty situation. I pictured some old hound lying on a doggie bed down there, tired and neglected, and maybe that's why they didn't want me to see him. So when I accused her of lying to me, it was actually more of a bluff call than anything else.

I figured the lady would get super offended, that my question might just be the last straw and that she'd end up either showing me Rufus or asking me to leave. She did neither. Instead, her tone turned super sweet again and said something like, Of course there's a dog down there, sweetie. Here, listen. Then she bangs her fist on the basement door and yells, Rufus, y'all right down there.

And then I heard, Oof, oof, oof. Coming from the basement. But instead of reassuring and relieving me, I felt this icy cold feeling run down my spine. Because if there's one thing I am 100% sure of from that encounter, her, it's that whatever made that wolf sound was not a dog. It was human. I knew it was a person making that sound. The lady knew it was a person, and she knew that I knew

it was a person down there, too. I could tell just from the look on her face, the way she went from all sweet to kind of nervous. I don't know if those pretend barks worked on other people, but they sure as hell didn't work on me, because after a few seconds of awkward eye contact, I turned around, walked out of that house, and made a beeline for my car. I guess the lady figured that she could maybe shame me into coming back because she started yelling all this mean stuff as I sped away walking to my car. And then the last thing I heard before I zoomed off down the street was her offering to double the money that I was being paid.

But honestly, she could have tripled it, quadrupled it even, and I'd still have wanted out of there faster than you can say, that ain't no dog. When I got home, dad obviously wanted to know why I was home early, and then when I told him, he just about exploded and ran to the cops. His complaint boiled down to, these slippery sons of bitches tried to trick my little girl into being alone in the house with some weirdo down in the basement, and so the cops drove over to that big old house in that nice part of town to figure out what the hell was going on.

They called back the next day, saying they'd inspected the basement and that nothing was going, on. There was no dog bed down there, no people either, just a regular old basement full of junk and old boxes. They did, however, make it clear that if I hadn't felt safe there, I'd done the right thing and walking away. Dad told me that stuff like that is why he'd been so nervous about the idea of me staying in people's houses. He said most folks serve good, kind-hearted people who want quiet, peaceful lives, but it only takes one single solitary individual to ruin a good thing, and spoil it for everybody else. He also said there's sometimes a difference

between what people present themselves as and who they really are, and that's exactly how they lure girls like me into their homes on the pretext of something innocent. I don't know exactly what that family's deal was, if that person was down there of their own free will, or if something much, much darker was going on. All I know is that it made me much more careful when it came to the kind of jobs I took,

before eventually making me give it up altogether. Most homes are filled with good people, but find that one in a thousand or a million or whatever it might be, and you don't get out alive if you even get out at all. This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Shorter days don't have to be so dismal. It's time to reach out and check in with those you care about

and to remind ourselves that we're not alone. With the changing seasons and longer nights, it's a tough time for many, so this November, we're encouraging you to reach out to friends, reconnect with loved ones, and show that you care, just like sending that first message or grabbing coffee with someone you haven't seen in a while may take courage reaching out for therapy can be challenging too but trust me it's completely worth it and you'll likely find yourself asking why didn't i do this sooner for me calling my dad brings me

comfort wisdom and a sense of calm his words often remind me that no matter how complicated life feels love and experience can guide me through it all better help therapists are fully licensed in the U.S. and follow a strict code of conduct to ensure you receive the best care possible. BetterHelp takes care of finding the right match for you so you can concentrate on your therapy goals with ease. Just fill out a quick questionnaire that helps us understand your needs and preferences. And with over 10 years of experience and a top-notch matching success rate, we usually hit the mark right away. Plus, if you ever feel like your match isn't right, no worries. You can switch to another therapist at any time from our personalized recommendation.

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That's better, h-elp.com slash read. So I was a cop for 15 years, mostly working financial crimes. I transferred from homicide to the Grand Larsonie Division quite early on and quickly discovered that the thing I enjoyed most was how numbers really can't lie. It almost didn't matter what suspects had to say during the interview portion of an investigation because I knew that just one look through their accounts would tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help them God. I got pretty damn good in my job too, so much so than when I retired, I decided to try my hand as a private detective. My office,

wasn't much, and I didn't have the resources I did back on the force, but working on my own suited me just fine. I got to pick my own cases for once, stuff that really caught my attention, which included the one that I'm about to tell you. One day, a lawyer that I'd known from my police days gave my office a call, saying that he had an important client who'd required my services. It turned out a certain massive multinational company thought someone was messing with their cash flow, which ran like a river through almost every major country on the planet. Given my background, the lawyer figured that I was the right man for the job, and considering the pay they were offering, I didn't disagree.

The company had accounts scattered across the globe, and the paperwork was a maze of transfers, receipts, and invoices. Piercing it all together proved to be one hell of a task, but I'd seen worse in my time on the force. I started pouring over spreadsheets and bank statements looking for anything that didn't quite fit or seemed out of place. And then after a few days of searching, I found something. I started to notice subtle inconsistencies in the international cash flow,

stuff like payments being funneled to shell companies that didn't seem to do anything, amounts that didn't match the usual patterns, and transactions which popped up at strange hours. To anyone else, what I was looking at might have seemed like nothing more than innocent clerical errors, but I knew better. Money was slipping away, and someone was making that happen. I spent the next few days cross-referencing records or tracking the flow of cash from one account to the next, and the deeper I dug, the clearer it became that the discrepancies I was seeing weren't an accident.

Someone inside the company was siphoning funds, and they were pretty damn good at covering their tracks, too. Just not quite good enough to hide it from me. The numbers had given me a trail, but I needed to do that. names to go with it, so I set up interviews with key players in the company, one of which was the CFO, the guy who's paid to keep the books clean. And I met him in that sleek office of his, with its floor-to-ceiling windows in the view of the city skyline, and he greeted me with a handshake and a smile. At first, I kept it light but professional, and asked a bunch of very generalized questions about the company's finances. Then once the CFO was comfortable, I started

zeroing in on one payment, a large transfer to a vague overseas account that had caught my eye. I wanted to know who signed off on it, but when I asked him, he said he couldn't recall. It must have been someone in his department, but he didn't handle every detail himself. Coming from the CFO that did not sit right with me, not one bit, people in his position don't forget to approves a seven-figure cash transfer to an overseas territory, so as you can imagine, his answer left a very sour taste in my mouth. Next on the interview schedule came some of the CFO's co-workers, people who worked closely enough with him to know his day-to-day activities.

One was a mid-level manager who handled international accounts, and when I asked about that same transfer, he scratched his head and mentioned a meeting where it had been discussed. The CFO had also mentioned such a meeting, but claimed that he hadn't attended. Yet when I asked that mid-level manager if the CFO was present that day, he said yes. I pressed the manager for details, but he stuck to his story,

saying the CFO had been present at the meeting, and unless there had been some grand miscommunication, he'd been well aware of the amount and destination of the transfer. Next, I talked to an assistant who had been with the finance team for years. She acted very nervous as she claimed not to remember any specifics, but did say that she remembered the CFO signing off on something big around that time. She said it had seemed urgent, too, and that the CFO had told the finance team to get it done fast. I now had two different stories, both clashing with the CFO's version of events.

The cracks were showing, and I could feel the case was starting to heat up. After that last interview, I left the building and headed to my car, which was parked in a quiet lot about a block away. I had a small tape recorder that I used to record thoughts after meetings, an old habit that I kept from my days as a cop. So after I slid into the driver's seat, I hit record and started thinking out loud like I'd done so many times before. I laid out what I'd learn from the suspicious gaps in the CFO's memory to the assistant's offhand comment about the rush job, and I figured that I could be on to something significant. The next step was finding out who owned that overseas account, and I figured there was a pretty good chance that sooner or later, my hunt for its owner would leave me right back to the company itself.

After that, I remember saying something about how the CFO might prove to be a key player and what could prove to be a huge case of international wire fraud, but I never got to finish that thought. A sudden crack split the air, and before I could react, my driver's side window exploded inward and showered me with glass. Instinct kicked in, and I ducked down in my seat, but I didn't move fast enough. Four shots rang out, one after the other. The first bullet tore up. a hole through the dashboard just above my lap. It splintered the plastic and I felt the vibration of the impact on my thighs. The second shot grazed my left shoulder, slicing through my jacket and shirt, peeling back the skin. Blood welled up instantly, soaking my sleeve as I jerked sideways

and slammed my head against the steering wheel. The third bullet punched into the passenger seat beside me, missing my ribs by a matter of inches. I felt the seat shudder as it slammed through the stuffing. And my heart was like a jackhammer in my chest, and adrenaline screamed at me to flee, but there was no time to process what was going on before the fourth shot hit me square in the jaw, and everything changed. The impact was like a sledgehammer swung full force into my face, and I'll never forget the feeling of the pain suddenly exploding through my skull. The bullet entered just below my left cheekbone, shattering bone and teeth as it carved a path through my jaw. I felt the crunch of it breaking apart, fragments grinding against each other as

the slugged ripped through muscle and exited just below my ear. My mouth flooded with blood, but also the chalky grit of my own shattered teeth. My vision was blurred, and the world seemed to just sort of tilt on its axis as shock set in. My hands flailed, searching for something to hold on to be at the door, the wheel, anything, but I felt my body shutting down. Darkness crept into the edges of my vision, and the last thing I remember was the faint hiss of the tape recorder still running as I slipped into unconsciousness. The next thing I remember was waking up in a hospital bed, hearing that steady beeping cutting through the haze. My entire body was aching. It hurt just to breathe and my shoulder burned where that bullet had just grazed it.

But that was nothing compared to my jaw. It felt like someone had bolted a steel vise to my face and cranked it tight, which in a sense is exactly what the doctors had done to keep my skull together. Every time I tried to speak, swallow or move my mouth, a jolt of agony shot through me. But the worst was when I used my tongue to probe the damage, feeling empty sockets where my teeth once were and the cold feeling of the metal wires holding my shattered jaw together.

I don't know exactly how long it was after I woke up, but a nurse noticed that I was awake and hurried over to me. She told me not to move, and at first I had no memory of how I ended up in the hospital. But as soon as she started explaining that I'd been shot multiple times, all those memories flooded back. The shoulder graze was minor, she said, but the jaw wound was bad. The bullet had entered my left cheek, fractured my mandible in two places, obliterated half my lower teeth, and then exited near my ear,

taking out a chunk of soft tissue with it. They'd rushed me into the ER to stop the bleeding and stabilize the bones, and the surgery had been a success. She kept saying that I was lucky to be alive, but in that moment I didn't feel very lucky. I remember the frustration I felt as I tried to ask questions, but with my jaw wired shut, the words came out as nothing but garbled nonsense. I gestured for something to write with, and the nurse handed me a notepad in pen. My hand shook as I started scrawling these things asking what happened and who shot me. She didn't know much, just that the police were investigating and would soon visit me.

I tried to nod, but even that small motion sent a flash of pain through me. Later, the surgeon came by. He was a tall man with a calm voice that somehow made me feel at ease despite everything, and after some initial questions he pulled up a chair and laid it out for me. Treating the grays to my shoulder was pretty simple, and all they'd needed to do was clean and stitch and bandage that. But my teeth was a lost cause. The bullet had smashed them into splinters,

so they extracted the roots and shards during the surgery and then suction them all out to prevent infection. My jaw was wired shut, this grid of metal loops keeping it immobile while the bones were fused, and he said that it'd probably be weeks, maybe months before they could remove the wires, and even then, I'd need dental implants to replace what was gone. I was listening, but my head was going absolutely nuts from the meds and the shock, but all I could do was wonder who had shot me,

and whether or not they'd try and finish the job. Two detectives arrived the next morning and stood by my bed as I wrote out everything I remembered. They read over what I'd written and then filled me in on some of the details that I was. was missing. Thanks to the bullet holes in the dash and the seat and the blood soaked into the upholstery, my car was officially a crime scene until it could be cleared for release. The tape recorder had caught the whole thing, the cracks of gunfire, my choking, and then the silence after I passed out, so I guess that was being held for evidence as well. And like the nurse, the detectives told me that I was lucky, not because of the circumstances of my injuries, but because the person they

believed had been hired to kill me, had been an amateur and not a pro. A real hitman would have made sure that I wasn't breathing before leaving the scene. The detectives also told me about the security camera footage they had from a store across the street. It showed a grainy figure, little more than the shadow of a back and an arm, as he hesitated, fumbled the shots, and then just ran off in a panic. One of the detectives said that it looked like a first-timer, someone cheap and desperate. They'd found nine-millimeter shell casings at the scene, but no prints and therefore no clear leads. In response, I wrote down something about my suspicions regarding that company CFO, and they nodded and said they'd look into it, but I saw the skepticism. Corporate cases were

always murky and convoluted, and without evidence tying the hit to someone specific, even making an arrest would be a long shot. For the next few weeks or so, the hospital became my entire world. Even with all the pills, the ambient pain was a constant companion, like a dull ache in my jaw that flared up into razor-sharp spikes every time I made the wrong move. Eating was impossible, so I was put on a liquid diet and fed through a straw. The nurses blended my meals into a gray mush consisting of things like broth, mashed veggies, and protein shakes. It tasted like wet cardboard and swallowing hurt, but I had no choice other than the force it down if I wanted to stick to my recovery schedule. My shoulder healed fast, but the stitches itched under the bandage. Infection was definitely a risk, but the nurses kept me pumped full of antibiotics to keep that at bay.

Physical therapy started early, which amounted to this grueling routine aimed at stopping my jaw from locking up permanently. A therapist named Claire visited me every day. She was all smiles and patients and would sit me up, prop pillows behind me, and then guide me through exercises which stretched my muscles without cracking the healing bones. She'd asked me to open my mouth, and I'd be in so much pain that I'd start sweating as I'd tried. But I did try. On some days, I could manage a few millimeters, and other days nothing at all. On those days, Clare's would just sort of nod, completely unfazed, and jot notes while I just silently cussed myself out. I felt trapped in a body that wouldn't obey, but Claire kept the faith that I'd be able to heal, and she was eventually proven right.

Sometimes it felt like the silence was worse than the pain. I'd always been something of a talker, but after that shooting, I was a mute, scribbling notes or pointing like a nonverbal child. Friends visited, bringing cards and awkward energy, but I couldn't join in, and I wouldn't be in the mood to celebrate my survival for quite a bit of time after that. My sister stopped by too, just sitting quietly with tears in her eyes as she watched me sip my food through a straw. I hated the pity, the way it made me feel weak and pathetic. One of the those detectives stopped by once to update me on the case. They still didn't have any suspects, but they were determined to find the shooter and make him talk. I asked him to

keep digging, and he promised he would. But the way he sighed before he left told me everything I needed to know. The shooter might have been an amateur, but he got the basics right. So I had to accept the chances of finding him were pretty much slim to none. The shooting turned out to be just as psychologically damaging as it was physically damaging, and I was plagued by nightmares for months afterwards. I'd hear gunshots echoing in my dreams, feel the glass shattering and that taste of blood in my mouth. I'd sit upright with my heart racing and try to yell out only to feel pain shoot through my jaw. During the calmer daylight hours, I'd replay the attack of my head, wondering who exactly wanted me dead. The CFO's smug face kept surfacing,

but I knew that he couldn't have been working alone. And that's about the time the paranoia started creeping in. I'd stare out the window in my hospital room, half expecting to see a sniper on the roof opposite me. The nurses noticed my jumpiness and up my sedatives, but that really didn't help. Not really. And after just shy of two months in that hospital,

I was finally discharged. I thought it had helped to get back to the familiar, but I was wrong. I didn't feel comfortable in my apartment. I felt too exposed and too vulnerable. I couldn't stay, not with a shooter, still out there. I packed, sold my office lease, and moved to a new town before setting up again under a fake name. Now, I take infidelity cases, small, safe, and simple jobs, where the risk levels are minimal.

I watch from a distance, using cameras and caution, avoiding anything that smells like corporate greed. I still got the scars. My jaw clicks when I eat, and I got a crooked smile and some missing teeth that the implants couldn't fully fix. Speech came back slowly, and I managed now, but those who knew me before say they can hear the difference. The nightmares still visit me sometimes, just less and less frequently, and I've learned to live with them.

No one ever worked out who that shooter was or who hired him. So about six or seven months in, I got a call from the detectives to say that they were being transferred from the case. I wasn't mad. I knew they'd tried their best, and I'd already kind of resigned myself to never seen justice for what had been done to me. But it still stung knowing whoever shot me was free, and in all likelihood they'd probably try to kill again. In terms of who paid them, the CFO is my best guess. But the truth is, I'll never know.

The company rolls on and I'm just a guy who got too close. But I survived. And that's enough for me. A long time. A long time ago, back when I was still a broke high school dropout, I used to advertise Handyman's service. his own Craigslist. It was actually a pretty good moneymaker for a while, so much that it delayed me starting an actual business because I was making so much money. But over time, the places I was hitting up got weirder and weirder until eventually I had to quit working Craigslist jobs

altogether. People sometimes ask if there was one specific job, one specific straw which broke the mules back, and I always tell them about this one particular encounter. One day I get a call from a dude about putting up some shelves in his place. He's got the shelves, he's got a place he wants them, and he just doesn't have the tools or the skills to put them up. So he gives me a call. We arrange for a time for me to drive over, then I get there with my toolbox for what I figured would be a 30-minute job.

But then the second I turned on the street and saw which house I was working in, I started getting one of those weird sinking feelings. That place was a total mess. There's trash on the lawn, there's a rusted car with no way, wheels propped up in the driveway, and the windows looked like they hadn't been cleaned in years. Like I said, I had the bad luck of being called out to a bunch of different houses like that,

and I was starting to get real goddamn sick of it, too. I'm not talking about folks too sick or old to take care of themselves. I understand that not everyone has the time or energy to keep their places looking like something off of an HOA leaflet. But when a place is so dirty that there's actual fleas hopping around the furniture. You really wanted to ask a person, how the hell can you live like this man? What's wrong with you? And this guy was that type. This guy, I'll just call him Jerry, said that he lived with his aunt Janie, and then we had to be quiet because she was sleeping. I told him, dude, maybe this isn't the best time for me to be hammering walls if your aunt is asleep. But he assured me it was fine, and since the job would be a quick one, she wouldn't

mind the interruption. And I'm saying something like, whatever you say, boss, and then I follow him inside and out to a back room, which is where he wanted the shelves put up. But then right there, on the couch next to where he wants me to put the shelves up, is a pile of blankets with a very human-looking shape underneath. The second I saw it, I whispered, Dude, that's not your Aunt Janie, is it? And then he nodded and said, yep. And I told him there's no way that I was hammering the wall right next to her without waking her up. And then right as he's giving me some explanation about how it's fine and she won't mind,

something hits me. I start thinking, who the hell is sleeping totally covered up like that? And I'm making my way across the room towards the shelves when I suddenly realize, Aunt Janie isn't asleep, is she? I turned to say something to Jerry. I can't quite remember what now, but I turned to see him sliding something heavy in front of the door. I asked what he's doing,

and he tells me the hinge is loose, and he needs the car battery in front of it to stop it swinging open. He tries staying all calm and convincing, but I can smell bull crap immediately. The only reason he wanted to put that thing in the way was to keep me from being able to get out of there fast, or in other words, he wanted me trapped.

To this day, how quickly and how strangely the situation escalated is something that's never been topped for me. In the space of maybe 30 seconds, I went from this poor lady's getting her nap interrupted to realizing she was most likely taking a permanent nap at the hands of the guy I'd just been swapping small talk with. One minute I was there to put up some shelves. The next, I wasn't sure if I was getting out of there alive because right after Jerry tells me that lie about the door not closing properly, he bends down and picks up this hefty-looking

metal pipe. I ask him, what's that for? Trying to stay as cool as possible, and he responds, Oh, this thing? Nothing. Just picking it up so you don't trip over it. But he's holding it tight in his hand like a weapon, so I knew he wasn't doing anything out of courtesy for me. I knew I had to think on my feet and find some excuse to get out of there the day. didn't provoke him into trying to hit me with that pipe. But I also knew that there was a real good chance that the guy was going to get violent with me, in which case I had to arm myself. I had a gun at home at the time for home defense, but I didn't go carrying it around with me, not always anyway. So at first I say, hmm, well, let me see which tools I need for this.

And the first thing I pull out of my bag is my claw hammer. I then take a look at the shelves while playing extremely dumb, and then I ask him something along the lines of, I think this is going to wake up your Aunt Janie and make a real mad, dude. I'm a heavy sleeper myself, but I got to tell you that I'd be waking up with someone hammering on a wall right next to my head. And I couldn't believe what he did next. I saw him start relaxing again once I started playing dumb. It was obvious that whoever was under the blanket wasn't just sleeping,

but since my best chance of avoiding conflict was playing along, that's what I did. I tell him about his aunt waking up and how it's not a good idea if she's sick or needs rest or whatever. And then this guy walks over to the couch saying, Nah, it's all right. And then lifts up the blanket and starts yelling. Aunt Janie, wake up! She's got a washcloth or something covering her face, but just her face, like a death mask. It might sound kind of weird, but I think that was the creepiest thing about this entire exchange.

seeing this poor old lady with just her face covered after he'd pulled back the blanket. Remembering him pick up that metal pipe kind of just makes me mad to think about these days. But the image of that piece of cloth or whatever it was covering up her face like he'd sort of, I don't know, taken her face away from her, it creeps me out something awful. Anyway, I still got no chance but to keep playing along, so that's what I keep doing. I remember saying Damn, she is a heavy sleeper, huh? And then he says,

I told you, man, she's sick. She's not going to wake up, it's cool. He had not mentioned anything about her being sick and that was literally the first time. But still, I just play along with my hammer and my hand and then I go back to looking through my toll box and trying to think of another excuse. That was probably the most at risk I felt

because I'm watching Jerry out of the corner of my eye thinking, if he rushes me right now, I'm screwed, because I'm kneeling down with my back to him. I guess that kind of hurried my thought process along, because the next thing I remember saying, ah, damn it, I think I brought the wrong brackets. He gave me a confused look as I stand up again and turn to him, so I knew that I was in the clear in terms of being able to bluff him, which was a huge relief, but I still wasn't out of the woods just yet. He says, Huh? Brackets. And so I started explaining I need this special little wooden bracket if I was going to drill into the plaster.

It was total nonsense. I could have used whatever the hell kind of bracket I had with me, but Jerry didn't know that, so that's what I went with. I told him all I needed to do was head out to my trunk to get them and even volunteer to leave my toolbox there because I wasn't going anywhere, and I'd be right back once I grabbed them from my trunk. It hurt knowing that I was about to lose them. That was a couple of hundred bucks in tools at least, but I also knew that that was sort of my ace in the hole

when it came to getting out that door, because it completely fooled Jerry into thinking that I was going to be right back. He steps out of the way of the door, moves the car battery so I can actually open it, and then I walk back out to the truck. I don't suspect a thing, and I'm going to be right back. But then the second I get to my truck, I'm in the driver's seat and gunning the engine like my life depended on it.

A few minutes later, I'm pulling into the parking lot of the strip mall and calling 911. I told the dispatcher everything, and she told me if there really was a dead body involved. I was probably going to get a call back from the cops sometime, and she was right. Just like I suspected, Aunt Janie was dead, and it meant I needed to be fingerprinted so the cops could distinguish mine from anyone else's. I figured right then that it must have been murder, and that Jerry was some psycho who murdered that lady, before taking up residence in her home, but that's not actually what happened. Jerry had learning difficulties, pretty serious ones too, and it was actually his aunt lying there dead on the couch.

I don't know what happened to his mom and dad, but his aunt had been taking care of him all of his life. And then when she died, he just kind of lost it, refused to accept it and only armed himself with that pipe because he thought I was going to separate him from his beloved Aunt Janie. I mean, that's exactly what I was going to. going to do, so I suppose I really was in danger once I was in that room with his dead aunt. But after the cops told me about a situation and how I had grounds to press charges for

wrongful detainment, I just declined. I felt bad for the guy. He didn't understand that his aunt was gone, or if he did, he sure is how I wasn't ready to let her go. Now, don't get it twisted. If he'd have come at me with that pipe, I'd have taken his goddamn head off. But finding out that he wasn't some monster, just a confused, heartbroken hermit with the mind of a child, that totally changed how I looked at it. It made me realize how much danger I was putting myself in by visiting random homes like that. When I step inside, I become part of their world and part of their stories, and some people's stories don't have happy endings. Hey, friends, thanks for listening.

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