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unofficial business. I
told him that my security had been breached and that the alarm company would be
responding, but could he please look into it. Gibson agreed.
    An hour later the cell buzzed again in my pocket and I
excused myself from the movie I’d been watching with the kids in the hotel and
stepped into the bathroom. I turned on the fan to cover our conversation and answered
my phone.
    “Simon? It’s Gibson. I’m in your house. Geez Louise… nice
place, man.”
    I’d given Gibson the security passcode to the door so that
he could enter without a key, as well as the code for the security system. I
stood in the bathroom in shorts and a T-shirt and bare feet, listening to
another man walk through my home.
    “Everything looks normal,” Gibson said. “Nothing is trashed
or destroyed. Your electronics are all here… no one took your stereo or TV… who
the hell is Charlie Parker?”
    “Get away from my CDs. What about the PC?” I asked.
    There was a pause and I could hear his footsteps on the
hardwood floors as he walked to my office.
    “Still there. Hard drive is still in place,” he said. “I’m
telling you, it looks like nothing was touched.”
    Somehow I knew that statement was fundamentally untrue.
Something somewhere was tampered with, bugged or stolen. No one breaks in just
to break in. Not in my neighborhood. Not with the countermeasures I’d put in
place. But I couldn’t say otherwise to Gibson, so I let it go. I thanked him
for his time and told him to lock up when he left.
    Back in the hotel, I let the kids enjoy their movie and then
tucked them in bed. Every look from Alaina seemed to be questioning me, but I
suspected that to be more my conscience than anything on her part. We returned
to Alexandria and I began to plot how to get out of town.
    In the days that followed, I ran a long distance house hunt
from my home office. I located a few properties through an agent in Chicago and
then arranged one day that I would come out and look at them. In the end, I
chose a two-story colonial home outside the city on nearly an acre of land.
There was a gravel drive on the approach that skirted a pair of willow trees by
the entrance to the property. The house was beautiful and airy with new
conveniences, but still retaining the lived-in charm of a house with character.
There were enough bedrooms for all of us, including Alaina. In the back of the
house was a screened in porch with wicker furniture and a pitcher of lemonade
and some glasses.
    “Nice touch,” I said.
    “The owners thought it made it seem homier,” the realtor
replied. She was a woman named Bev who reminded me alarmingly of my 3rd-grade
teacher, Mrs. Stark. Despite that fact, she seemed pleasant enough.
    “It didn’t need any help,” I replied. I looked out the back
window and surveyed the yard and envisioned the kids playing and running and
laughing. A new life… a new beginning. “How much?” I asked.
    “How much is the asking price?”
    “Yes.”
    She told me. I turned back to her.
    “What’s it going to take to get this house, Bev?”
    She was a little taken aback by my question.
    “I can only advise you that it’s a competitive market and
that the owners will entertain your strongest offer,” she replied.
    “No, I understand that. I’m not bartering. What’s it going
to take to make sure that I get the house, end of discussion? No contingencies.
No counter-offers. No other buyers... What’s it going to take?” I asked. My
voice softened a little; she wasn’t my enemy here. “I really like this house.”
    “If you offer $5000 over the asking price, I could probably
get a verbal agreement by tomorrow,” she replied.
    I knew what she was feeling. That flutter in her chest as
she visualized the deal coming together. The mental voice telling her to close
this idiot now before he gets away; that anxiousness to bag the deal but
please, oh please, don’t scare this one off. I poured myself a glass of
lemonade and