Trumped

eight // the truth must emerge

The Truth Must Emerge

I haven't slept a wink in over twenty hours, and it's starting to affect my functioning. Regardless, I can't allow this to get in the way of catching the intruder.

As Hillary and I make our way to the site of the interruption I ask, "So, who do you think the intruder is?"

Her face is puzzles for a moment, but soon it morphs into realization. "Oh, right," she says, as if she's just now remembering the reason she even came over. (Frankly, I wouldn't even be in her company right now if it weren't for the information she's about to reaveal.)

"Oh my god, get on with it!" I urge her impatiently. Is it truly this difficult to say a name or is she purposefully trying to irk me? I'll assume the former, for I am generously granting Hillary another chance to prove herself.

She frowns, and elongates my waiting time even more. Perhaps whatever I said provoked her to stall even further, however, I care not at all. Hillary quickly tucks a strand of stray hair back into place behind her ear and opens her mouth, pausing to inhale. "Okay," she relents, "fine. I have a sneaking suspicion that the intruder—and this is just an educated guess—is Ted Cruz. After all, he is the accused Zodiac Killer. It's only logical that he'd break into your home; it's only a matter of time before he starts the murders."

I nod approvingly. Her theory makes perfect sense; even though Ted Cruz dropped out (I like to say that he zodiac killed his chances at winning), he still must feel a raging jealousy toward me and the other candidates. Obviously he wants revenge. "Yes, that sounds right. I'd like to catch him in the act, though, so we can show authorities and get this sick man behind bars."

"We could set up a hidden camera around the area in which he keeps entering," Hillary suggests.

"Actually, that's not a bad idea," I say. "I can't believe you're a woman, you actually have good ideas sometimes!" I guffaw loudly and slap my knee. I crack myself up sometimes; my sense of humor is truly amazing.

On the contrary, Hillary's sense of humor is absolute and total garbage, and she doesn't laugh at my well thought out joke. "Anyway... why don't we get the equipment?"

"Alright."

The walk to the biggest of my several hundred closets is one of the most awkward experiences I've ever been through. Our conversation is choppy and we run out of things to say quickly.

I'm eternally grateful once we reach the closet and pull out one of the extra security cameras I keep there (while my mansion is constantly under surveillance, courtesy of guards and more cameras, you can never be too careful), and with that we bring the supplies back to our initial spot.

To set camera up in the proper position is an easy task and within a few minutes, we finish.

"Okay," she says. "It's all ready."

"Let's do this."

We silently make our way to another wing of the house, hidden from the mysterious intruder—or rather, Ted Cruz. Knowing the identity of the criminal who continuously bruises my ego and my home is a peculiar feeling and it may take a while to get used to it.

After several uneventful moments of waiting, I whisper to Hillary, "Should we just leave this situation alone? Obviously he's not coming ba—"

My words are cut off by the cacophonous noises coming from the room that's been vandalized by Ted Cruz. My ears perk up at this; I strain so to catch any small movements or sounds.

Hillary grabs my arm in excitement and then, seemingly embarrassed, she removes her arm. We can't deny these feelings any longer, however, this is a problem for another day.

We both sit in silence, daring not even to let out the slightest of breath in fear of being discovered (and quite possibly killed on the spot—you can never be too careful with these types of people).

The deafening crashes and noises come once again, and while the both of us are convinced he's left the premises, we continue to stay in our static positions. I grip my tie apprehensively, as this is our only hope of catching Ted in the act.

Many minutes pass by; once we are sure it isn't hazardous to leave our hiding spots, the two of us stand.

We make our way to the site of the crime, making not a sound as we walk. I lead the way, of course, because men are vastly superior to women and should always be in front, no matter the circumstances.

Lucky for us, it appears Ted Cruz has fled the scene, so there's only a small possibility that we'll be murdered tonight.

I gesture to the spectacularly well hidden camera that has captured the fate of my life and say, "Do you want to..." My voice trails off; it'd be a major blow to my ego if I admit that I don't know how to work a camera properly.

Hillary rolls her eyes (though I know she secretly is in love with me and my stupidity), but complies nonetheless. She undoes the tricky wiring and pulls out the camera and we then make our way to one of my film rooms.

We reach our destination with ease despite how long it takes to arrive. Hillary does something technological and sure enough, the recording is showing up on the large screen I have strategically placed for the best movie viewing experience.

At first, the tape simply shows the room, free of people. The beginning moments are highly uneventful and I let out an enormous yawn of boredom.

Suddenly, a large crash sounds and I immediately know that this is it. Ted Cruz has entered my home at this point. (I'm extremely grateful that Hillary decided to stop being such a woman and use her brain—rather than stay in the kitchen—so that we could finally capture this disgusting man. It never ceases to amaze me that a woman, especially one like herself, could be genius enough to formulate such plans. It's honestly a marvelous phenomenon.)

A hooded figure, Cruz, rummages around the room, seemingly searching for something. Oh, I cannot believe how pathetic Ted Cruz is. (The Zodiac Killer and a thief? Jesus, why didn't his mother teach him better?) Ted moves from the large sofa and over to the armoire—in which I keep fine china in as decoration—and opens it. As he pulls it open, his grasp on it slips and he is smacked in the face. Ted stumbles backward a bit, and the hood he's wearing falls, revealing his identity. (This information is very valuable, for now we can verify that it is indeed Cruz.)

But I peer closer at the screen, for the person in the recording isn't Ted Cruz. I can hardly believe my eyes. This is not at all what I should be seeing. This tape should show Cruz breaking and entering, and who I see certainly isn't Cruz.

The unmasked person featured in the video isn't even a man; it's somebody who I never thought I'd see again. Somebody I thought I fired and was done with. The woman who has been making my life hell for the past however many days is none other than my former secretary: Lindana.