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BOB THE PLUMBER

T he Past

Unknown caller: This is Detective Smith from the Johnsonville police department.

Me: Oh, hello?

Unknown caller: We have a report that your car was involved in a fatal crash.

Me: Oh my god, that’s awful.

Unknown caller: Yes, we’re going to have to come and ask you some questions.

Me: Oh my gosh. I haven’t seen that car in months. My ex kept it when we broke up. But I’d be happy to help.

Unknown caller: Well the vehicle is still in your name. So you’re legally responsible for anything that occurred .

Me: Oh my goodness.

Unknown caller: (laughter) This is a joke. We wanted to give you a fright, and it clearly worked.

Me: …who is this?

Unknown caller: This is your ex’s mum, silly! (More laughter)

The Present

I take myself to Dock Bar. Although it’s where Timmy and I first met in person, I still consider it a safe space, my space.

The bartender recognizes me, and I trust her enough to tell her what happened. “Oh my god,” she says. “Can I come and give you a hug?”

I nod, and she runs around the bar and squeezes me. “I’m so sorry that happened to you,” she says. “I was in a relationship like that once. And from my experience, guys like that never change.”

I order some food, and I pick at it while nursing a drink. “Oops,” says the bartender. “I accidentally made the wrong drink for someone. So this one’s for you.” She winks at me, handing me the second glass, and I accept it, grateful for the kind gesture and for her understanding.

My phone buzzes. The moment I see the call is from ‘Bob’s Plumbing,’ my stomach churns with dread.

I don’t know any contractors on this island.

Timmy works on renovations. It has to be Timmy, somehow manipulating one of his friends to intimidate me.

My hand shakes as I stare at the phone, the pit in my stomach spreading wide, threatening to swallow me whole. I let it ring out, and something compels me to listen to the voicemail.

“This is Detective Smith from the Sunset Cay Police Department. Please call me back urgently.”

What the actual fuck? He’s somehow sending people to pretend to be police officers, now ?

My heart pounds in my chest as I dial the number, my hands trembling so hard I can barely tap the screen. This could be Timmy messing with me… or maybe it’s something worse.

The line clicks.

“Detective Smith,” the voice on the other end says. To be fair, he sounds like a cop. I was married to a detective, and I can usually tell. Still, I’m cautious.

“Uh, hi, I got a message to call this number?” I manage, my voice shaky.

“Is this Margaux Benson?”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Oh good. I’m glad you called back so quickly. I’m just at your apartment building. Are you home?”

Every warning bell in my head goes off at once. “You called me from a plumbing number. And now you’re saying you’re a detective? And that you’re where I live?”

He chuckles, as if this is some funny misunderstanding. “Yeah, I know. Someone’s told me that before. It must be some system glitch. A number I inherited. But, yeah, I’m legit. I should probably get that changed.”

A wave of nausea sweeps through me. Is this real, or am I being played? I can’t tell if this guy is just unprofessional, or if I’ve fallen into some twisted prank.

“Can you come meet me at your apartment?” he asks again.

I grip the edge of the counter, fighting the rising panic. Absolutely not. The last thing I’m doing is meeting a strange man—real detective or not—alone in my apartment.

“No, I’m… uh… I’m down the street at the Dock Bar having lunch.”

There’s a pause, and I hear papers rustling in the background. “Can I come meet you there?”

“...I guess?” I say reluctantly, my skin crawling. I just want this whole interaction to be over, and my instincts are on high alert. What the hell is going on ?

“Great. I’ll be there in five to ten minutes,” he says before hanging up.

I sit at the bar, trying to sip my drink but failing miserably, my hands shaking each time I try to lift the glass. My heart pounds, my thoughts spinning out of control. My breath feels too shallow, too fast. What if this isn’t real? What if this is some kind of setup?

When he arrives, I spot him instantly. Total detective type—closely-cropped hair, business shirt, dark pants. He pulls out a badge and flashes it quickly. It looks real, but the whole ‘Bob’s Plumbing’ thing still has my paranoia gnawing at me. I stare at him, trying to read his expression, but his face is impassive. He gestures to a table out on the balcony. “Is it okay if we sit over there? It’s more private.”

I nod and follow reluctantly.

“Do you mind if we tape our conversation?” he asks.

“That’s fine,” I mutter, feeling like I’m floating outside of my body, watching myself agree to things out of habit and fear.

He pulls out a recorder and presses the button. “Okay, let’s walk through what happened last night.”

His tone is calm, almost clinical, but his questions are pointed. Too specific. Every word out of his mouth feels like a trap, something designed to catch me slipping up.

“When he shoved you to the ground—did he use his left hand or his right hand?”

“Um…” I pause, struggling to recall. “I think his left... but maybe both. He came at me really fast, and… kind of shoved me hard, and I was more focused on not hitting the floor face-first.”

He narrows his eyes. “So you don’t remember exactly which hand?”

“I was just trying to protect myself,” I say, my voice faltering. “I wasn’t keeping track of his hands.”

He clicks his tongue, clearly annoyed. “The more specific you can be, the more it helps.”

“I just don’t remember, and I don’t want to make up an answer.” I feel like I’m being pressed to answer something that I simply don’t recall, and I don’t want to lie to the police just to give them the answer he so clearly wants.

“Were you drinking?” His voice drips with judgment. “It would be helpful if you remember more than you do.”

“Yes,” I reply. “I’m sorry I can’t remember everything about it. I wasn’t expecting my fiancé to threaten, and try, to kill me.”

His next question makes my skin crawl. “When he used the deer antlers on you—did they fully penetrate your anus, or…?”

I freeze, my stomach flipping violently. My pulse roars in my ears. What the fuck is happening? I feel like I’ve been thrown back into that nightmare from years ago—my rape trial. The cold, detached way the lawyers dissected every bruise, every rip in my body, while I sat there on the witness stand, trying not to fall apart. My instinct, weirdly, is to protect Timmy. I know what he’s angling at, that penetration would take a domestic assault case into a full-on rape charge.

“They didn’t penetrate,” I whisper. “I had pants on.”

He nods, jotting something down in his notebook. “Okay. But just so you know, we may need to document this as a sexual assault if the intent was there.”

No. No. No. I feel like the walls are closing in. I can’t go through that again. I can’t survive another trial where my body becomes evidence, where every move I made is picked apart and questioned.

He leans back, his tone shifting slightly. “Look, I’ve seen this kind of thing before. I checked this guy’s record, and let me tell you—it’s long. It’s only a matter of time before he kills someone.”

I stare at him, my mouth dry. “I… I had no idea. He told me about some stuff with his brother, and that he got in trouble once for running around on the beach shouting, ‘I kill you’—but I thought that was just... stupid shit.”

“Yeah, it’s much worse than that,” he says. “And you know, when I visited him in jail to question him, he was still really out of it. Drunk, even twenty-four hours later. I had to go back a second time. And there’s something really off about him. He’s not right in the head.”

“Seriously?” The now-constant knot in my stomach grips tighter .

The detective shakes his head grimly. “He’s got a history. He’s dangerous, and honestly, you’re lucky to be alive.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. I feel like I’m trapped in some twisted alternate reality. How did it get to this? How did I end up here—afraid for my life, sitting across from a detective at a bar, talking about being sodomized with deer antlers and how my fiancé, who I thought was a very laid-back surfer boy, is actually a pathological maniac with a mile-long rap sheet?

“I need you to be really careful,” he says. “He’s unpredictable. If he’s let out, he could come straight for you.”

I nod, but my mind is spinning. What if he does? What if Timmy blames me and decides to finish what he started?

The detective seems to sense my fear. “We’ll make sure you’re safe. He’s banned from the building, and if he comes anywhere near you, you call us immediately. Don’t hesitate.”

I nod again, numb. My drink sits untouched on the table, the ice melted to slush. The detective gives me a small, grim smile and gets up to leave. “Take care of yourself, Margaux. And don’t go back to him, no matter what.”

As he walks away, I sit here in stunned silence. The weight of everything crashes over me—Timmy’s attack, the fear that still clings to my skin, the uncertainty of what’s coming next.

I thought I could handle this, but now I’m not so sure.