Page 154 of Mangled Memory
“You’ve got it.”
I turn to my brother and to Ren. “I’m heading down. Are you guys going or staying?”
Ren crosses his arms as if he’s offended. “I’m with you, Ayla.”
“Same.” Cian whistles for Eleanor, and she sits at attention.
Franklin merely bounces around. Okay, so hemightneed training.
By the weekend, my curiosity far outweighs my guilt for disrupting Fitz during his recuperation.
Me: I know you mentioned you have my equipment from that day on the ridge. Is it with you or in the house?
Fitz: It’s in the safe room. I never knew if it held clues and I didn’t want to risk it.
Me: I can’t believe I didn’t see it the first time I was in there.
Fitz: You’re still banging on about that?
Me: It was cold. The coffee was awful, and I didn’t know what the hell was happening.
Fitz: It saved your life.
Me: *You* saved my life.
Fitz: Potato. Potato.
Me: What can I bring you? What can I do for you? Are you bored out of your mind?
Fitz: I haven’t had time to be bored. My mom is fawning over me like I’m fourteen and broke a leg.
Fitz: Save me.
Me: Not on your life. You’re lucky she cares.
Fitz: I know.
Me: I’m sending food your way. What do you want?
Fitz: Anything Corinne cooks. And don’t tell my mom I said that. Deleting this now.
Me: {Laughing emoji}
I head for the stairs and slide the invisible latch to open my dark room. That tang in the air must be permanent. It’s faint, but never leaves. I don’t know the last time I was in here and have no clue the last time I developed with chemicals, yet it hangs, likewarm apple pie or sawdust, lingering to remind me of something that I love.
I push the latch that opens the safe room and let myself in. Last time I was here, I was terrified. I assumed Christian was dead. Not knowing him well, but knowing he was a lifeline to who I was—who I am—and I could lose him was horrifying. The masked men. Not knowing that Fitz was ultimately trustworthy.
A lot has changed. My memory isn’t one of them. Regular doctor’s visits don’t indicate any reason why I can’t remember or if there’s a chance I’ll recover what’s been shadowed. My visits with Joanie are less frequent but still consistent. We work on a new puzzle now—not attempting to find an image we can’t see—but designing the life I want to see. One with my husband. One with stronger relationships with my brothers. One that might include kids with the god-like man in his home office, but certainly includes adventure and beauty and a puppy who’s stealing my heart.
I open door after door until something catches my eye. On the first shelf, shoved in the back of a cabinet, is a red and yellow reusable shopping bag like those from the grocery store. Next to it is a professional camera bag. It’s no wonder I didn’t see them before.
I slide both out and start with the padded camera bag. There’s an SLR with no damage. It’s a little dusty, but no worse for wear. There are battery packs, lenses, and SD cards packed away in a manner that feels familiar, like a habit I’m so used to I don’t question it.
From the other bag come two cameras. Well, theywerecameras. Now, they’re simply shells of their former selves. The thirty-five millimeter cracked open exposing the film inside. It’ll be a long, long shot if anything is there, and if it ever was, if any piece is salvageable at all.
The SLR is beat to hell and back. It’ll take tools to jimmy this open.
Grabbing both bags, I exit the safe room, drop the film camera on the bench in the dark room, and take the rest to the kitchen island. In the junk drawer is a screwdriver. I crack openthe battery area and wish I hadn’t. White cake flits out and onto the counter.
