Page 101 of Mangled Memory
“Go? I don’t want to go out.” She looks down her body past her hoodie and sleep pants to her huge fluffy socks.
“Come on.” I push back from the table and extend a hand. This is new for us. She never needs leading or guiding.
We walk hand in hand up the stairs, past the library and the guest rooms to the end. The theatre sits on the front side of the house, across the hall from our suite, because the story-and-a-half ceilings and the skylights in that room ate up the upstairs.
Black paint covers sound dampening material. Black theatre seating surrounds the screen.
“Where would you like to sit?” I offer to my wife, watching her select the middle seat in the middle row, exactly the one she’s always chosen. She may not know it, but so much is still the same. I take the seat to her left, the one I’ve always picked and grab my phone. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Nothing suspenseful. No thrillers or horror. Not tonight. Choose something I don’t have to think about.”
Knowing my wife, she’ll be asleep in less than half an hour. Full emotion-filled day, plus hiking, and a huge dinner? She may not make it that long.
I cue upFerris Bueller’s Day Off. I wouldn’t call it mundane, but it’s easy viewing. And easy avoiding which I’ll need after she falls asleep.
“Bueller? Bueller? Did you seriously choose this?” Her grin is real, and her face is open and vulnerable. It’s been months since I’ve seen that look on her face.
“I did.”
Before Ferris can say, “they bought it,” I know two things. One, my wife is back. Meaning we’re anusagain in a way wehaven’t been since before her fall. And two, the months since then have been a farce on her part. Her obvious relaxation and vulnerability with me are a stark difference to what has been since she woke up in the hospital. She’s been playing at trusting me. Playing at… well, I don’t know what.
I sit next to her, my mind reeling and my gut churning. It takes mere minutes for her to melt into my side and not long after that before the weight of her in sleep presses into me.
I reach an arm around, setting it on her hip, possessive and claiming. Whatever happened today brought my wife back to me.
But there will be hell to pay for whomever took her from me to begin with. Starting now…
Me: I need info that you’re not going to like.
Liam Murphy: Try me.
Me: I need a private investigator to dig into Ayla’s fall.
Liam Murphy: Already done. I can send the results.
Me: Deeper. I need someone to pull the threads.
Liam Murphy: Okay. But why now?
Me: Because today I saw it with my own eyes. And so did she. There’s no way she fell. She was pushed. Or thrown.
Liam Murphy: The fuck? You sure?
Me: Zero doubt. Her body couldn’t get to where it was without help.
Liam Murphy: We assumed foul play.
Me: We can confirm foul play now. I need to know who. I need to know why. And not surface-levelshit.
Liam Murphy: Agree.
Me: Second.
Liam Murphy: There’s more?
Me: Your dad has been acting suspicious. Beyond the normal disdain for me. Can you or someone you know investigate that?
Liam Murphy: After yesterday, it would be my pleasure.
