The Day My Older Man Took Me To A Place I Never Thought I’d Go: Part 3

Obliv­i­ous, we stepped right into his wife’s trap. The FBI team she hired was appar­ently watch­ing us 24–7 and feed­ing the fam­ily the acquired infor­ma­tion. The team even man­aged to take pho­tos of us board­ing the plane with what must have been high-powered lenses, because we had not a clue there were any peo­ple, let alone feds, nearby. As I look back now, I imag­ine the family’s sec­ond home must have looked like “com­mand cen­tral.” And team­ing up with his wife, his entire fam­ily was at com­mand cen­tral, and were involved with solv­ing the mys­tery of the twenty-seven-year-old strip­per from Vegas who was steal­ing away this family’s patri­arch. The funny thing is that I have no idea where they got the twenty-seven-year-old bit. If some­one thought I was twenty-seven, God love them—I was forty-two at the time.

I was intro­duced to the Stet­son man’s ranch early on in the rela­tion­ship. The ranch was his safe haven, partly because his wife refused most invi­ta­tions to the ranch due to her being jeal­ous over his time spent there. I picked up on his love for the ranch with its vast expanse of land early on, and I played it to my advan­tage. I made friends with the staff, espe­cially the world-renowned chef. He would make my favorite meals and spend time with me while the Stet­son man was off hunt­ing wild game. This par­tic­u­lar week­end was much like our pre­vi­ous stays, except that I had a friend with me—and the FBI were hid­den in the brush with long-range zoom lens cam­eras, snap­ping pho­tos at every opportunity.

Nat­u­rally, the FBI shot their prized pho­tos of us while we were deplan­ing and load­ing my dog, lug­gage, and all the trea­sures I’d pur­chased over the week­end into my car, which was parked imme­di­ately adja­cent to the char­tered plane—my license plate in plain view. The plate on my car was still reg­is­tered back in my home state because I hadn’t yet switched the reg­is­tra­tion over after I’d moved to the Stet­son man’s home­town. This would give them my pre­vi­ous address from a few states away. But, worse yet, they tailed me home from the air­port, and so now they had my cur­rent address.

The FBI had eas­ily accessed all my infor­ma­tion, and all while I was obliv­i­ous to their sleuthing being so involved in my grief over my son’s death. The truth is, his wife wasted her money on the FBI team—she could have hired a few high school kids to obtain the same infor­ma­tion. Dur­ing that week­end, I was not even attempt­ing to hide; I believed she was a few states away at their family’s sec­ond home. I basi­cally handed his wife my name, addresses, and pho­tos. I could have just as well called and intro­duced myself. And now she knew her husband’s dirty lit­tle secret—the game was about to begin.

  • Guest

    wait so how does the story end?!?!

  • Guest

    how does it end?!?!?!