Stalked By A Serial Killer

Chapter Fifty-Three: Oh Shit

Chapter Fifty-Three: "Oh Shit."

"OH MY GOD, this is so exciting!" She squeals.

I would have walked, but if I remember correctly, the massage thing weighs a good thirty pounds, and I don't want to walk ten minutes, carrying a thirty pound box with a bad neck and back.

"So, tell me about the house!" Megan demands. "What colour is it? Do you have green grass? Which neighbourhood do you live in? Is it close to the beer store? What about–"

"Does this answer your questions?" I ask rhetorically, pulling up to the gates of my house and punching in the code.

I hesitate.

There's no cobwebs on the buzzer.

There was last time.

"What's wrong?" She asks.

"Hmm?" I squeak. "Oh, um, nothing. Just needed to remember the pin. I haven't been here in a while."

"Oh, okay!" She chirps. I give her a small smile, and the large gates open, allowing me to drive through up to the house. I debate on parking on the cul-de-sac or in the garage, in case anyone decided to come in to see if someone is home.

In the end, I choose parking in the garage. Pressing the button, I see a vehicle I have never seen before. We had four cars before when Dad was around, and that was the F-150 Raptor, my Corvette, the BMW M6, and the Lamborghini.

Never once had I seen a huge SUV the size of a freaking transport truck with it's big wheels and bulky frame. Our detached garage is big enough to fit a yacht and decently sized RV trailer inside, and this truck looks like a monster truck–but scarier. Like a Humvee on steroids.

Crap.

"Whoa," Megan gasps. "That's a huge fucking tank."

I chuckle nervously, but try my best to hide it. Yes, she knows about my dad, but no, I don't want to tell her he's back; I don't even know if he's back. "It's a. . . customized Humvee, Meg."

"Damn." She laughs. "You really are loaded."

I smile awkwardly, and gesture for her to get out. She does.

"Hey, Meg?" I say, "Can you run to the front of the driveway and see if the gate closed and locked? Sometimes it closes but doesn't lock and it's a security issue."

"Sure!" She chirps, and skips down the drive. I take this opportunity to grab a flashlight and peer into the military vehicle. Whatever dad is using it for. . . it can't be good. He can't just get a customized military vehicle when he isn't even military anymore.

It's hard to see through the very dark glass–I'm surprised my dad didn't go completely opaque, but it could be purposeful.

It's clean up in the front, though I know there's secret compartments. I check the handle, and unsurprisingly, it's locked. I check the back seat, and it's clean as well. I can see metal sticking up from the bottom of the front seats, so there's a few compartments.

The trunk holds the jackpot. There's a huge box, most definitely holding artillery and God knows what. There's a scatter of large rifles and handguns around it, and it looks to be messily placed.

I think he was in a hurry.

I flicker off the flashlight, just in time to see Megan run back up the driveway to the cul-de-sac. "It's locked."

"Great," I smile. "Shall we?"

She nods vigorously, and we walk up to the house. There's a bunch of locks on every door, so I start to unlock one of the five separate deadbolts, alongside the pin needed to be entered.