The Neighborhood Preacher
“One more outburst from you, Mr. Ericson, and I will hold you in contempt of court.”
Judge Sonia Kagan’s face had turned a shade of crimson that rivaled the exit signs above the double doors. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a laugh; her expression was almost comical, like a bulldog chewing on a wasp. The veins in her neck pulsed visibly, and I could see the muscle in her jaw working overtime as she ground her teeth together.
“Mr. Young,” she hissed, turning her ire toward my attorney, “I strongly advise you to control your client before I make decisions that will affect both of you very negatively.”
I had been warned. Several times, in fact. The bailiff had given me the stink-eye twice already, and the court reporter kept shooting me nervous glances. But it’s difficult to filter certain words from your vocabulary when they constitute a significant portion of your daily lexicon. A guy once told me he’d never met anyone who could turn profanity into poetry the way I did. It was meant as a compliment, I think. Maybe I do curse a lot, but it flows like water downhill—without thought, without resistance. My father used to say I could make a sailor blush, and he wasn’t wrong.
As I opened my mouth to offer a rebuttal—something about the hypocrisy of the entire legal system—I saw the judge tense up, her gavel hovering like a guillotine blade poised to drop. My attorney, Bert Young, shot me a look that screamed, Shut up unless you want a cellmate named Bubba tonight. His eyes were wide, almost pleading, and I could see the sweat beading on his forehead despite the courthouse’s aggressive air conditioning. Even the court reporter stifled a giggle, her fingers hovering over the keys, likely bracing for a torrent of expletives to paint the official record in shades of blue that would make the transcript unreadable in polite company.
To my left, the gallery of traitors looked like they were attending a funeral—specifically, their own. Robin, my soon-to-be ex-wife, looked shamed and downtrodden, her eyes fixed on her sensible shoes like they held the secrets of the universe. Her shoulders were hunched forward, making her appear smaller than her actual five-foot-four frame. Bruce, my former best friend, sat with the defeat of a conquered general etched into his sagging features. His tie was askew, his hair unkempt, and he had the hollow-eyed look of a man who hadn’t slept properly in weeks. And Cheryl, his wife, just looked angry. She clearly didn’t appreciate her dirty laundry being aired in a municipal courtroom, especially when that laundry was stained with the sins of her husband and saturated with the shame of her own complicity.
By now, you might wonder how a guy like me—a thirty-two-year-old city maintenance foreman with a high school diploma and a vocabulary that would offend a convict—ended up being scolded by a judge in a black robe while his life imploded in real-time. It wasn’t just bad luck. It wasn’t a series of unfortunate events. It was a calculated demolition, orchestrated by people I had trusted with my life.
It all started on a Tuesday. Let’s call it Doomsday.
Chapter 1: The Perfect Neighborhood
My name is Jack Ericson. I run the city maintenance department for Stonemore, Colorado, a mid-sized town of about forty thousand people nestled in the foothills where the plains meet the Rockies. I started with the city two days after tossing my high school graduation cap into the June air of 2009. Fourteen years of working my way up from the bottom, from the guy who cleaned out storm drains with a shovel to the man who coordinated eight crews and a million-dollar budget.
In the winter, I plow the major arteries of the city, battling blizzards that sweep down from the mountains with a fury that catches transplants by surprise. I’ve worked thirty-six-hour shifts, fighting whiteout conditions to keep commerce flowing and emergency vehicles moving. In the summer, I’m the guy who fixes the potholes you curse at when they jar your suspension, and I clear the storm drains you ignore until they overflow and flood your basement. I know the anatomy of this city better than I know my own blood vessels—every pipe, every culvert, every weakness in the infrastructure that keeps civilization running smoothly.
Robin worked a few hours a week at the church, mostly to take a break from the housework she barely did anymore. It hadn’t always been that way. When we first got married eight years ago, she’d been energetic, involved, the kind of woman who kept the house immaculate and dinner warm on the table. But over the past year, something had changed. The house gradually descended into a state of comfortable chaos—dishes in the sink, laundry piling up, dust gathering on surfaces that used to gleam. At the time, I attributed it to her volunteering more at the church. I was an idiot.
We lived in a nice four-bedroom, two-story home in an older, established neighborhood called Elmwood Park. The houses were built in the seventies, solid construction with mature trees lining the streets and sidewalks that were actually level. We couldn’t afford the rich side of town, known as “The Hill,” where the lawyers and doctors built their mini-mansions with three-car garages and professionally landscaped yards. But we didn’t live in the rough parts either, where chain-link fences kept aggressive dogs contained and police sirens were part of the nightly soundtrack. We existed in the comfortable middle, flanked by neighbors we thought were family.
Tom and Jerry McBain lived next door in a rambling ranch-style house painted a cheerful yellow. Tom worked as an accountant for a local firm, and Jerry—despite having a man’s name—was one of the sweetest women you’d ever meet, always bringing over cookies and organizing neighborhood barbecues. They had two kids: Tommy, who was twenty-one and supposedly taking classes at community college, and Brenda, who was nineteen and worked part-time at a coffee shop while figuring out what she wanted to do with her life.
Ron and Cindy lived directly behind us in a two-story colonial that was the envy of the block. Ron was a pharmaceutical sales rep who traveled constantly, and Cindy filled her days with book clubs and volunteer work at the animal shelter. They were in their fifties, their kids grown and gone, living the quiet life of empty-nesters who actually seemed to enjoy each other’s company.
And Bruce Harris—my childhood friend, my brother from another mother—lived behind the McBains with his wife, Cheryl. Their house was a modern craftsman-style build that Bruce’s parents had helped finance, complete with a finished basement and a backyard patio that was perfect for the church gatherings they hosted regularly.
Our four households got along so well that we had no fences separating our backyards. It was a communal green space, almost an acre total, a symbol of trust and neighborly cooperation. The kids from all the houses had played there growing up. We’d had joint cookouts, birthday parties, Fourth of July celebrations with illegal fireworks that sent Roman candles arcing into the Colorado night sky. It was idyllic. It was perfect.
It was a lie.
Bruce and I had been inseparable since middle school. We met in seventh grade when his family moved to Stonemore from Kansas. I was the roughneck, the kid who got detention for fighting and showed up to class with scraped knuckles and a chip on my shoulder. He was the golden boy, clean-cut and polite, the kind of kid teachers loved and parents wanted their daughters to date. We were opposites in almost every way, but somehow it worked.
His parents were devoutly religious—the kind of people who said grace before every meal and attended church three times a week. They viewed the world through a lens of sin and redemption, judgment and forgiveness. My dad, on the other hand, was a practical man who believed in hard work and staying out of trouble. He often told me, “Jack, as long as you don’t knock a girl up or cost me money, I don’t give a damn what you do.” It was liberating, in a way. I had freedom Bruce never experienced.
If Bruce’s parents were going to punish him for a transgression—staying out past curfew, getting caught with a beer, or God forbid, looking at a magazine with naked women—I’d take the blame. I knew they hated me anyway. I was the corrupting influence, the devil on Bruce’s shoulder, the reason their perfect son occasionally stumbled. So their opinion was currency with no value to me. What did I care if they thought I was going to hell? I figured I’d already bought the ticket.
Bruce grew up to be a preacher at a local church, Vinewood Presbyterian, a mid-sized congregation of about two hundred members. It was one of those churches that tried to be modern and relevant, with contemporary worship music and a coffee bar in the lobby, but still held onto traditional values about marriage and morality. The irony of that would become apparent later.
I only darkened the door of a sanctuary on Easter and Christmas, mostly to appease Robin, who attended religiously—pun intended. She’d sit in the third row, singing the hymns with genuine feeling, while I stood there wondering how much longer until I could leave. While Bruce was at Bible College in Oklahoma, he met Cheryl. She was a knockout—five foot seven, blonde hair that fell in natural waves to her shoulders, blue eyes that seemed to look straight into your soul, with a figure that stopped traffic and caused at least three fender-benders that I knew about. Despite her looks, she was devoted to prayer and service, teaching Sunday school and organizing mission trips to Central America.
I thought Bruce was the yang to my yin, the moral compass to my wandering needle. I would have taken a bullet for him without hesitation. I would have buried a body for him in the middle of the night, no questions asked.
I was about to find out he was the one holding the shovel, and I was the body he wanted buried.
Chapter 2: The Storm
Monday evening brought a nasty June thunderstorm that battered Stonemore with high winds and hail the size of golf balls. My quadrant—the northeast section of the city—took the brunt of the abuse. Trees that had stood for fifty years snapped like toothpicks. Power lines came down in showers of sparks. Storm drains backed up and flooded intersections. It was chaos.
I had six crews running dump trucks, picking up shattered tree limbs and clearing debris from the roadways, while I drove around in my pickup checking storm drain complaints and coordinating with the power company. The radio never stopped crackling with new problems. A tree had fallen across Maple Street. A stop sign was down at Fifth and Jefferson. Water was pooling three feet deep in the Henderson Street underpass. By the time I cleared the debris and managed the street sweepers to clean up the mess of leaves, bark, and broken glass, I was running on fumes and caffeine. I’d consumed at least six cups of coffee and maybe eaten a granola bar somewhere around hour ten.
When I finally got home Tuesday evening—actually, it was one forty-five in the afternoon, but it felt like evening after working all night—I heated up leftover meatloaf in the microwave. I didn’t mind the leftovers themselves, but it stung that my wife hadn’t cooked a fresh weekday meal in months. The meatloaf was dry, the mashed potatoes had that reheated texture that’s never quite right, and the green beans were mushy. I wanted to drink a twelve-pack and pass out in front of the TV, but the red mark on the calendar meant I was on emergency standby for the next forty-eight hours. One beer was my limit, and even that was pushing it.
I ate alone at the kitchen table while Robin showered upstairs. It was seven o’clock in the evening now—I’d slept for a few hours after eating. She came down the stairs, her hair still damp, wearing yoga pants and one of my old t-shirts. She offered a half-hearted “How was your day?” before disappearing into the living room to watch some reality show about housewives throwing drinks at each other.
This routine had been the soundtrack of our marriage for months. The intimacy was gone, evaporated like morning dew under the harsh Colorado sun. Our love life, once vibrant and frequent enough that we’d joked about wearing out the box springs, had reduced to twice in three months, and even those moments felt like she was performing a chore on par with cleaning the gutters or organizing the garage. She’d lie there with the enthusiasm of someone waiting for a dental procedure to end, and afterwards she’d immediately head to the shower like she needed to wash me off her skin.
I watched the Rockies play the Padres on TV, wishing for something stronger to numb the silence of the house and the growing distance between us.
Around ten o’clock, just as I was drifting off on the couch, my phone screamed. City Dispatch. A water main break near Birchwood Mall, the shopping center on the south side of town.
I packed snacks—beef jerky, energy bars, a thermos of coffee—kissed my sleeping marriage goodbye, and headed into the night. The job was brutal—breaking pavement with a backhoe at one in the morning, the machine’s diesel engine roaring in the darkness while I guided the bucket to expose the broken pipe. Then hauling mud and water until dawn, my boots squishing with every step, my clothes soaked and reeking of the earthy smell of wet clay. By noon the next day, we were ready to repave. I returned the equipment to the city yard, exhausted, grime under my fingernails and probably in places I didn’t want to think about, and pulled into my driveway at one forty-five.
I was off until Friday. Three glorious days to sleep, recover, and maybe do something resembling relaxation. I expected a quiet house, maybe Robin at the church or out shopping.
I grabbed a beer from the fridge—a local IPA that was probably too hoppy but did the job—and made a sandwich with the last of the lunch meat and some cheese that was one day away from requiring a scientific classification. As I closed the fridge, the suction seal popping was the only sound in the kitchen. The house was silent. Too silent.
But then I heard it. A noise drifting down from the second floor. At first, I thought maybe Robin was watching something on her laptop, some movie or show. But the sound was too organic, too real. The unmistakable, rhythmic sound of a woman in passion—breathing heavy, gasping, moaning in a way that was both familiar and foreign because I hadn’t heard it directed at me in months.
“No wonder you don’t touch me anymore,” I muttered, the realization hitting me like a physical blow to the solar plexus. The beer suddenly tasted bitter, and the sandwich felt like sawdust in my mouth.
I didn’t panic. I didn’t cry. Years of emergency response had trained me to stay calm in crisis situations. I walked to the coat closet, reached to the top shelf behind the winter hats and gloves, and grabbed my Kimber forty-five. It was a beautiful weapon, custom grips, perfectly balanced. I had bought it three years ago and practiced at the range monthly. I racked the slide, the metallic sound sharp and final.
I moved up the stairs, a ghost in my own home, each step careful and deliberate. The noise grew louder—a guttural, primal sound that echoed off the hallway walls. I checked the master bedroom. Empty, the bed still made from that morning. The bathroom. Empty, with Robin’s makeup scattered across the counter like always. The guest room. Empty, filled with boxes we’d been meaning to organize for two years.
That left the craft room, the smallest bedroom that Robin had claimed for her scrapbooking and sewing projects that she never actually completed.
I kicked the door open, weapon raised, adrenaline flooding my veins and sharpening every sense.
Empty.
The sound wasn’t coming from inside the room. It was coming from the open window overlooking the backyard, drifting up from below or across from the neighboring houses.
Chapter 3: The Window
I moved to the window and looked down into our shared backyard space. What I saw defied logic, shattered my understanding of my neighbors, and made me question reality itself.
Tommy and Brenda, the McBain children—and I use that term loosely because they were both adults now—were by their pool, engaged in an act that I can only describe as shocking. They were both naked, intertwined in a way that left no doubt about their activity, and they were being quite vocal about it. I froze. My brain couldn’t process the data fast enough. The McBain siblings? Together? This was Jerry Springer territory, the kind of thing you read about in tabloids and assume is exaggerated.
“They’re watching us! Look at them!” Brenda cried out, looking up toward the houses, her voice carrying across the yard with crystal clarity.
She wasn’t looking at me. She was looking to her left, toward the other houses.
I followed her gaze, my eyes tracking across the shared space to the windows of the neighboring homes.
In the window of the house next door—Bruce’s house, specifically the master bedroom window that I’d helped him install custom blinds on two summers ago—I saw a bare back. A man was clearly with someone, moving with a fervor he never showed in the pulpit. The muscles of his back flexed with exertion, and I could see the motion, the rhythm, the unmistakable act playing out in full view. I watched, paralyzed, waiting for him to turn around, praying with everything I had that it was Cheryl beneath him, that this was just a married couple getting frisky with the windows open.
Then, he turned his head, probably to change position or whisper something.
It was Bruce. There was no mistaking the profile I’d known for twenty years, the nose he’d broken in eighth grade when we crashed our bikes, the scar on his shoulder from a fishing accident.
And beneath him, her face twisted in ecstasy, her hands gripping his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist, was Robin.
My wife. My partner for eight years. The woman who had promised to love, honor, and cherish me until death.
“Holy hell!” I yelled, the sound tearing from my throat so loudly that the scene below ground to a halt. Tommy and Brenda scrambled to grab towels, their illicit activity interrupted.
Across the yard, Bruce froze mid-motion. He looked up, his eyes scanning the houses until they locked onto mine through his window and my window. Even from this distance, I could see the blood drain from his face.
I raised the Kimber instinctively, my training taking over. I had a clear shot. Center mass. Forty-five caliber. At this range, maybe forty feet, it was almost guaranteed. My finger moved to the trigger, applying the first bit of pressure.
But my peripheral vision caught Tommy and Brenda scrambling, naked and terrified, toward their back door, slipping on the wet pool deck in their haste. The distraction broke my focus for a split second, making me aware of what I was about to do. By the time I looked back at Bruce’s window, they were gone, probably dropping to the floor or running to another room.
I ran downstairs, my boots thundering on the steps. I threw open the gun safe in the garage and swapped the pistol for my Mossberg twelve-gauge shotgun. I loaded it with buckshot, my hands shaking not from fear, but from the sheer desire to destroy everything that had hurt me. Each shell slid into the magazine with a satisfying click.
I stormed out the front door, the shotgun heavy and comforting in my hands, the weight of it grounding me in reality. But halfway down the driveway, halfway to Bruce’s front door where I planned to kick it down and end this nightmare permanently, I stopped.
The cool afternoon air hit my face. A car drove by, the driver oblivious to the domestic explosion about to occur. Mrs. Henderson across the street was watering her roses. I looked at the shotgun. I looked at the quiet street, at the normal suburban scene that was about to become a crime scene.
If I pulled this trigger, I lost everything. I would trade my freedom for their lives, and they weren’t worth it. They weren’t worth twenty-five to life in a state penitentiary, sharing a cell and eating prison food and losing everything I’d worked for. They were garbage, but garbage didn’t deserve that kind of sacrifice.
I understood everything now. The dirty house that I came home to, dishes piling up because she couldn’t be bothered. The lack of meals, the frozen dinners and takeout containers that had become our diet. The neglect of us, of our marriage, of everything we’d built together. She wasn’t tired from volunteering at church. She was exhausted from servicing the neighborhood preacher, from sneaking around and living a double life.
I threw the shotgun into the truck with more force than necessary, got in, and left black tire marks on the asphalt as I sped toward the hardware store. I needed new locks. I needed to secure my house. I needed to take back control of something, anything.
Chapter 4: The Confrontation
As I drove, my mind raced through the logistics of revenge. Violence was too easy. Too quick. A shotgun blast would end it in seconds, but then it would be over for me too. I needed something that lasted, something that would make them feel the pain for months or years. I needed calculated, cold revenge.
I bought three new locksets from Morrison’s Hardware, the kind with deadbolts that would require a battering ram to break through. The clerk, a kid named Danny who’d graduated two years after me, asked if I was finally upgrading my security. “Something like that,” I replied, my voice tight.
When I returned twenty minutes later, the driveway was empty. Robin’s car was gone. Bruce’s truck was missing from next door. Maybe they’d run, packed bags and headed for the state line like criminals fleeing justice. But I didn’t care.
I walked inside, still carrying the bag of locks.
Bruce was there. In my house. Sitting at my kitchen table. Waiting for me like he had every right to be there.
“What the hell are you doing in my house?” I demanded, dropping the bag of locks on the floor with a heavy thud.
“I came to talk to you as a friend,” Bruce replied, his voice trembling with a false righteousness that made my stomach turn. He was still wearing the same clothes from earlier, and I could smell Robin’s perfume on him, that vanilla scent she’d worn for years.
“Friend?” I laughed, a bitter, jagged sound that came from somewhere deep and wounded. “With friends like you, who needs enemies? That’s not just a saying, Bruce. It’s my new reality.”
“Jack, it doesn’t have to be this way,” he said, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace or surrender. “We can work through this. God calls us to forgive—”
“You’re right,” I said, cutting him off. I slid a butcher knife across the table toward him. It spun on the wood surface and came to a rest pointing directly at his chest like an accusing finger. “Pick it up.”
He stared at the knife, then at the Kimber I had tucked into my waistband. The bulge was obvious, intentional. “Come on, Jack. You can’t seriously expect—”
“Pick it up!” I roared, my voice bouncing off the kitchen walls. “You love Jesus so much? I want you to meet him. Now. Right now. Pick up that knife and threaten me with it. Come at me. Let me put Colorado’s self-defense law to use. Make my day, Bruce.”
Bruce jumped up like he’d been shocked, his chair scraping across the floor. His face went pale as milk, all the color draining until I thought he might pass out. He bolted for the door, practically running.
He stopped on the porch, safe behind the threshold and the property line, and turned back. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Jack, we’ve been friends forever. Since we were kids. Are you really willing to throw all of that away over this?”
“I lost two people today, Bruce,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “My wife and my best friend. But I think when I get past the anger—and that’s going to take a while—I’ll realize it’s no real loss. You’re both garbage. Now, where is she?”
“She’s at my house. She’s afraid to come over,” he admitted, looking at his shoes like a child caught in a lie.
“Tell her she has five minutes to get over here if she wants any chance of staying married to me. I mean it. Five minutes. Now get off my property before I decide that stand-your-ground laws apply to emotional threats too.”
Bruce scurried off like a cockroach exposed to light, practically running across the shared backyard toward his house.
Four minutes later, I heard the sniveling. Robin walked up the sidewalk, tears streaming down her face, playing the victim perfectly for any neighbors who might be watching from behind their curtains. She reached out to hug me, her arms extended like she expected me to embrace her.
I stepped back. “Keep your hands to yourself. You lost that privilege.”
“But I love you! I only want to be with you!” she pleaded, her voice rising to that pitch that used to make me want to comfort her but now just grated on my nerves.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, my voice cold and controlled. “The neighbors don’t need tickets to this circus. They’ve apparently had enough entertainment for one day.”
We sat in the living room. She tried to sit next to me on the loveseat, like we were going to cuddle and watch TV.
“No,” I said, pointing to the armchair across from me. “Sit over there. You don’t get to sit next to me.”
She perched on the edge of the chair, tissues already in hand, makeup running down her face in dark streams.
“How long?” I asked.
“He loves you like a brother, Jack. He’s your best friend. This doesn’t change that.”
“Friends don’t sleep with their friends’ wives, Robin. That’s basic human decency. How long has this been going on?”
“It’s just physical, Jack. I still love you. You’re my husband. Bruce and I, it’s just… it’s just scratching an itch.”
“What a load of garbage. How convenient for both of you.”
“You still have me,” she said, wiping her eyes and smearing mascara across her cheek. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m still your wife.”
“Yes, you are. You’re choosing Bruce over me. You can’t give me five minutes of your time, can’t cook me a decent meal, can’t be bothered to touch me, but you can give him anytime he wants? How wonderful. How modern of you.”
“We can stay married,” she said, her eyes widening with what looked like genuine hope, like she’d come up with a brilliant solution. “I’ll just be with Bruce too. I don’t love him, Jack. It’s just physical. He says I can take care of your needs once or twice a week. We can make this work.”
I stared at her, my mouth actually falling open. The sheer audacity was breathtaking. “How kind of him to give me permission to have sex with my own wife. I think I’ll find someone else to take care of my needs, thanks.”
“No!” She sat up straight, her voice sharp. “You’re my husband! No one else should be with you! We are still married! That would be cheating!”
“Not for much longer. And you want to have your cake and eat it too. Actually, you want to have two cakes and eat them both while I starve.”
“I… I think Bruce wants me back in three minutes,” she stammered, checking the clock on the wall like she had an appointment to keep.
“That’s it,” I snapped, standing up. “Go. Go get what you want. Get out of my house.”
“I don’t see why we can’t keep things as they are,” she whined at the door, her hand on the knob. “Lots of people have open marriages now. It’s modern. It’s evolved.”
I slammed the door so hard I felt the frame shudder and heard a picture fall off the wall in the hallway.
I spent the next hour changing every lock in the house, working with a focused fury that made the job go faster than it should have. I sat down after, opened a beer—my second of the day, but who was counting anymore—and turned on the TV to some mindless show I didn’t actually watch.
I fell asleep on the couch, physically and emotionally exhausted. I woke up at nine to pounding on the door. Through the peephole, I could see it was Bruce again.
“What do you want?” I growled through the door.
“I need a favor,” Bruce said, and I actually laughed out loud at the audacity. “Robin is crying. She’s really upset. Can’t you call her and tell her you’re not angry and everything will be okay?”
I yanked the door open. “Tell her everything will be okay? You want me to comfort the woman who’s been cheating on me? With you? Are you insane?”
“She’s just confused, Jack. She needs reassurance.”
“I’m done with both of you. What’s Cheryl going to say when she finds out her husband is sleeping with his best friend’s wife?”
“She knows,” Bruce said, dropping the bomb casually like he was mentioning the weather. “She’s known for months. She’s actually happy the sneaking around can stop. She wants the three of us to work it out. She thinks we can all be mature about this.”
I stared at him, my brain trying to process this new information. It wasn’t just an affair. It was insanity. It was a whole conspiracy.
“Get off my porch,” I said slowly. “Tell Robin that her stuff will be out here in the morning. In garbage bags, because that’s what she is now. Garbage.”
Chapter 5: The Investigation
The next morning, Cheryl Harris came knocking at seven thirty. I answered the door in my pajamas, coffee in hand, completely unprepared for what she had to say.
She didn’t want Robin’s clothes, which were already packed in black garbage bags on the porch. She wanted me to let Robin move back in because “We have an image to protect at the church.” She actually stood there, perfectly made-up at seven in the morning, and suggested I house and feed Robin while she slept with Bruce, all to save their reputation.
“Think about it, Jack,” Cheryl said, her voice taking on that reasonable tone people use when they’re saying something completely unreasonable. “If you two divorce, people will talk. The church will suffer. Bruce’s ministry will be damaged. But if you stay together, even just on paper, Robin can keep volunteering, you can keep showing up on holidays, and nobody has to know about the… arrangement.”
I slammed the door in her face so hard the doorbell chimed from the vibration.
I called a lawyer. I got the name of a law firm from a guy at work: Young and Associates. I met with Bert Young that afternoon. He was scruffy, wearing a tie that looked like it had been purchased during the Reagan administration, but his eyes were sharp.
“Mr. Ericson,” Bert said, reviewing my situation with his reading glasses perched on his nose. “This is one of the more interesting cases I’ve seen. I think we can get you everything you want and make your point clear. But I need to know—how far are you willing to go?”
“As far as it takes,” I said. “I want them to hurt the way they hurt me.”
“Good,” Bert smiled. “Let’s get to work.”
I packed the rest of Robin’s life into garbage bags and left them on the porch. Seventeen bags total, stuffed with clothes, shoes, makeup, all the debris of our shared life. I canceled the credit cards, all of them, cutting off her access immediately. I emptied the joint accounts—$23,450—into a new account in my name only at a different bank.
Then, I went to work on Bruce.
First, I called the City Accounting Department. I had allowed my crews to haul several loads of gravel to Bruce’s church for free over the past two years—a favor for a friend to help with their parking lot expansion. I’d kept the paperwork, signed the manifests, documented everything like the good city employee I was.
“Janice,” I said to the accounting clerk, a woman who’d worked for the city since before I was born, “I need you to do me a favor. You know those gravel deliveries to Vinewood Presbyterian? Turns out I never submitted the invoices. That was city property, city labor, city equipment. Make sure that bill is entered as unpaid. And add the transportation fees, the equipment rental charges, everything.”
Bruce now owed the city seventy-five hundred dollars.
Next, I called the water department supervisor. “Hey, Paul, you know that church on Vinewood? The one with the big expansion they did last year? Pretty sure their water meter isn’t up to code. It’s been bugging me. Might want to send an inspector out to check it out. You know how seriously the EPA takes these things.”
That inspection resulted in another eleven thousand dollars for meter replacement, backflow prevention systems, and inspection fees.
I called a buddy in the Fire Department. “Tony, I think the Vinewood Presbyterian Church might be a little lax on their occupancy codes. They’ve been packing people in there pretty tight for events. Might want to pay them a visit, make sure everything’s up to code. Just looking out for public safety.”
The Fire Marshal’s inspection found violations in the electrical system, insufficient emergency exits, and improper storage of flammable materials in the basement.
By noon, Bruce was calling me, his voice shrill with panic.
“What are you trying to pull, Jack?” he screamed into the phone. “The city inspectors are telling me I have to redo the whole parking lot! The fire department is threatening to shut us down! You said everything would be fine when we did that work!”
“Seems I forgot to turn in some paperwork,” I said, my voice dripping with false sympathy. “Don’t worry, I’m sure your congregation will help. Maybe take up a special offering. Pass the plate a few extra times.”
My supervisor walked in during the call, heard the conversation, and smirked. “Remind me to put a note in your file, Jack. Something about attention to detail and enforcing municipal codes.”
“I’ll remind you to remind me,” I joked.
Bruce was getting hit from every angle now. The Fire Marshal shut down the sanctuary for code violations, giving them thirty days to fix everything or face daily fines. The County Assessor, tipped off by an anonymous call, found an “error” in his property tax assessment that had undervalued the church property by forty percent. The Police Department started patrolling the area around the church more vigorously after I mentioned some “suspicious activity” involving possible drug deals in the parking lot.
But I needed the knockout blow. I needed evidence. I needed leverage that would destroy them completely.
Chapter 6: The Evidence
On Saturday morning, I was working in the garage, organizing the tools I’d neglected for months, when Brenda McBain appeared in my driveway. She held a USB stick in her hand, her face flushed, her eyes darting around nervously.
“Hi, Mr. Ericson,” she said quietly. “I have something you might find useful. A video. Taken about a week ago.”
I took the stick, examining it. “What is it?”
“Just watch it,” she said. “It explains a lot about what’s been going on in the neighborhood. And… I’m sorry. About everything. What Tommy and I did, it’s not… we’re messed up, Mr. Ericson. This whole situation is messed up.”
That night, after finishing a mediocre frozen pizza and drinking two more beers than I probably should have, I plugged the USB into my laptop. The file opened with a grainy video player. It was footage shot through a basement window, the camera shaky like it was being held by hand.
The location was the abandoned King James Hotel downtown. The city had owned the building for five years, planning to demolish it for a new municipal parking structure. It was supposed to be boarded up and empty, condemned and waiting for the wrecking ball.
But inside, there were lights. And people. And furniture that definitely shouldn’t have been there.
The camera zoomed in through the dirty window. I saw Bruce, wearing casual clothes I recognized. I saw Cheryl, her blonde hair unmistakable even in the dim lighting. I saw Robin, laughing and drinking wine from a plastic cup. And I saw others from the church congregation—at least a dozen people I recognized from the few services I’d attended.
They weren’t praying.
The video was shocking, but then the camera panned to a man sitting in a velvet chair that looked like it had been stolen from a movie theater, watching the proceedings with a glass of wine in one hand. He was older, distinguished, wearing an expensive suit even in this decrepit setting.
My jaw dropped. It was Stanley Morrison, a city councilman. A man who gave speeches about family values and traditional morality. A man who was currently running for state senate on a platform of “returning to decency.”
And next to him, adjusting her glasses and taking notes like she was documenting a psychology experiment, was Dr. Patricia Landers—the court-appointed marriage counselor that everyone in the county was required to see during divorce proceedings. She was the gatekeeper, the person who wrote reports to judges about who was being reasonable and who wasn’t.
I sat back, the glow of the screen illuminating my smile. This wasn’t just evidence for a divorce. This was leverage. This was nuclear-level ammunition.
I needed to serve the divorce papers, and I needed to do it in a way that would shatter their carefully constructed image forever.
Chapter 7: Sunday Service
Sunday morning. I walked into Vinewood Presbyterian Church at exactly ten fifty-five, five minutes before the service started. The congregation was thin—word must have been spreading about Bruce’s problems with the city. The choir was assembled—Cheryl, Robin, and a few others—singing a contemporary worship song about grace and redemption with voices that grated on my nerves.
I sat in the back. I caught the eye of Robert Donovan, the audio-visual guy who ran the projection system and sound board. He was a tech wizard who’d graduated from the community college with a degree in media production. He owed me favors—I’d fixed his driveway for free after a water main break damaged the foundation, probably saved him five thousand dollars. I gave him the signal we’d arranged, a simple nod.
Bruce stood at the pulpit in his pastoral robes, looking thinner than I remembered. The stress was eating at him. He was talking about forgiveness, about how God calls us to love our enemies, conveniently skipping over certain commandments about adultery and coveting your neighbor’s wife.
He asked if there were any guests who wanted to introduce themselves, a standard part of the service.
My three process servers stood up in unison.
“I’m here to see Cheryl Harris,” a young woman in a professional suit announced, her voice carrying through the sanctuary.
“I’m here to see Robin Ericson,” another woman said from the opposite side of the room.
“I’m here for Bruce Harris,” the third man said, standing near the front.
They walked down the aisles toward the front like bridesmaids in a twisted wedding. “You have been served,” each one said, handing over the legal documents.
Bruce grabbed the microphone, his face turning purple. “Why have you defiled my sanctuary? This is God’s house!”
That was Robert’s cue.
On the massive projection screen behind the pulpit—the screen usually used for worship lyrics and sermon illustrations—the cross image faded away. In its place, footage from the King James Hotel basement flickered to life in high definition.
There was Bruce, unmistakable, engaged in activities that would make a sailor blush. There was Cheryl, participating enthusiastically. There was Robin, clearly visible and clearly enjoying herself. The audio was muted, but the visual was damning enough.
The silence in the church was heavier than lead. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Then, chaos erupted like a dam breaking.
Several elderly members reached for their phones, calling family members or probably the church board. One elderly woman—Mrs. Patterson, who’d been a member for forty years—walked up to Bruce with her cane and struck him across the shoulders. “You charlatan!” she screamed. “You hypocrite!”
Robin screamed and tried to run, but the crowd had blocked the aisles.
I turned and walked out the door, the sound of their empire crumbling filling the air like the most beautiful music I’d ever heard.
Chapter 8: The Court Battle
Three days later, my attorney Bert informed me we had a court date with Judge Kagan. “She’s tough, Jack. Real tough. She usually favors wives in divorce proceedings, assumes men are at fault. And she mandates counseling with Dr. Landers before any divorce is granted. It’s her standard procedure.”
“I’ll go to counseling,” I said, smiling. “I have a few things to discuss with Dr. Landers.”
The session with Dr. Landers was predictable at first. Her office was decorated with motivational posters and certificates from workshops about “Alternative Relationship Structures” and “Post-Traditional Marriage Models.” Robin sat there in a chair across from me, crying, claiming she was a “free spirit” and that I was “narrow-minded” and “stuck in outdated paradigms.”
Dr. Landers nodded sympathetically, taking notes that I’m sure would paint me as the unreasonable party.
“Mr. Ericson,” Dr. Landers said, looking down her nose at me over her designer glasses. “Modern relationships require openness. Flexibility. You owe it to yourself and to Robin to be more understanding. Many couples today are exploring ethical non-monogamy, and the research shows—”
“I’m done,” I said, standing up.
“If you leave this session early, I will report you to Judge Kagan as being uncooperative. You could face serious consequences in your divorce proceedings,” Landers threatened, her pen poised over her notepad.
I leaned across her desk until I was six inches from her face. “Tell the Judge whatever you want. But I think you should know that I have video evidence of activities at the King James Hotel. Very clear video. And I know exactly who was there. My buddy Mike Star, the investigative reporter at Channel Seven, knows too. In fact, he’s very interested in doing a story about ethics violations among court-appointed professionals.”
Dr. Landers’ face went from smug to ghostly white in a heartbeat. Her pen clattered to the desk.
“I thought you might want to reconsider what you’ll be reporting to the judge,” I said. “Have a nice day, Doctor.”
I walked out.
The next day, I enacted the final phase of my plan. I went to my boss, the head of City Maintenance. “I’ve been thinking about that equipment storage problem we have. You know how we’re always short on space? What if we used the land behind the old King James Hotel? It’s city property, it’s already cleared, and it’s sitting there doing nothing.”
“That’s brilliant, Jack,” my boss said. “We’ve been looking for a solution for months. Can you coordinate it?”
“Absolutely. To properly secure it, we should fence off the entire property immediately. Safety regulations and all that.”
“Great thinking. This will save us money and secure a valuable asset. Get it done.”
Within twenty-four hours, my crews were securing the property with eight-foot chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire. The building was officially closed to all access, the doors chained, the windows boarded. Any evidence inside was now locked away behind city property signs and “No Trespassing” warnings that carried legal teeth.
Chapter 9: The Verdict and Epilogue
The court hearing two weeks later was anticlimactic. Judge Kagan looked pale and distracted, like she hadn’t slept well. There was a whispered conference at the bench between her and the attorneys that lasted ten minutes. Bert came back to our table with a small smile.
The gavel banged.
“Decree granted as requested by petitioner,” Kagan mumbled, barely audible.
I got the house. I got my retirement account, untouched. I got sixty percent of the liquid assets. Robin got her freedom and very little else—about eight thousand dollars and her car, which was seven years old and needed new transmission work.
The fallout over the next few months was significant. Mike Star ran a story about code violations and misuse of city property, carefully worded to avoid libel but clear enough that everyone knew what it was really about. Judge Kagan announced her early retirement, citing health concerns. Dr. Landers closed her practice and moved out of state within a month. Bruce was forced to resign from the church and left Colorado, rumor had it for a small town in Kansas where his parents lived. Cheryl divorced him and moved back to her hometown in Oklahoma.
Robin was left with almost nothing, living in a small apartment in the rough part of town, working two jobs to make ends meet.
But I wasn’t there to see any of it.
I had sold the house for a good profit—the market was hot—packed my truck with everything that mattered, and headed west.
Las Vegas, Nevada.
The desert heat was a dry blanket compared to the humidity of the midwest, and I liked it. I pulled my truck into the driveway of my new stucco home in a quiet suburb in Henderson, just outside Vegas proper. The lawn needed mowing, but I’d wait until the weekend when it was cooler.
Inside, the air conditioning hummed efficiently.
“Hi baby,” a voice called out from the kitchen.
Brenda walked into the living room wearing shorts and a UNLV t-shirt. She had changed from the awkward girl next door into a confident young woman. She was studying at the University of Nevada Las Vegas, working toward her degree in business administration, and building a life with me.
“How was class?” I asked.
“Good. Professor Henderson says I’m on track to graduate next semester with honors. My capstone project on organizational ethics got approved.”
“That’s my girl,” I said, wrapping my arms around her and kissing the top of her head.
We had left Stonemore together six months after the divorce was final. After everything that happened, Brenda wanted a fresh start too, wanted to get away from the dysfunction of her family and the gossip of the small town. Her parents, Tom and Jerry, had given us their blessing after a long, serious conversation.
“Jack,” Tom had said, sitting across from me in his living room, his face serious, “You’ve always been rough around the edges. You curse too much, you drink too much, and you have a temper. But I know you’ll treat her right. She’s an adult, she makes her own choices, and she wants this.”
Jerry had added, “Take care of our little girl. And Brenda, you take care of him too.”
They were right to trust me. I treated Brenda better than I’d ever treated anyone. Maybe it was because I’d learned from my mistakes. Maybe it was because she was young enough to see me as someone worth investing in. Maybe it was just because we fit together in a way Robin and I never had.
I walked into my den and turned on the TV to watch the Rockies game against the Diamondbacks. My life was quiet. My life was clean. No drama, no betrayals, no hidden agendas.
I thought about Robin, probably struggling somewhere with the consequences of her choices, working retail or waitressing to pay rent on a studio apartment. I thought about Bruce, preaching to empty rooms in some small town far away, his reputation destroyed, his ministry in ruins.
I took a bite of the pizza Brenda had ordered—real pizza from a local place, not frozen—and looked at her sitting at the kitchen table, highlighting her textbooks with focused concentration.
From one bad situation to a fresh start, I had traded chaos for peace. My life was finally on track. And for the first time in years, I could breathe easy.
The game played on. The pizza was good. And tomorrow was just another day in paradise.
Outside, the Las Vegas sun was setting, painting the desert sky in shades of orange and purple. I had left behind the snow and ice of Colorado for the dry heat of Nevada. I’d left behind the betrayal and lies for something simple and honest.
Brenda looked up from her books and smiled at me, and I smiled back.
Sometimes the only way to win is to walk away from a game that was rigged from the start. Sometimes revenge isn’t about destruction—it’s about building something better on your own terms.
I’d done both.
And I’d never been happier.
Lila Hart is a dedicated Digital Archivist and Research Specialist with a keen eye for preserving and curating meaningful content. At TheArchivists, she specializes in organizing and managing digital archives, ensuring that valuable stories and historical moments are accessible for generations to come.
Lila earned her degree in History and Archival Studies from the University of Edinburgh, where she cultivated her passion for documenting the past and preserving cultural heritage. Her expertise lies in combining traditional archival techniques with modern digital tools, allowing her to create comprehensive and engaging collections that resonate with audiences worldwide.
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