Page 200 of Mangled Memory
“I’ll be back. Stay here.” With those five words, he leaves me in a room I’ve never seen. Come to think of it, I bet not many have. It’s a safe room, entirely hidden within the house.
It’s utilitarian, not comfortable. There are a couple of chairs, a table, and a wall lined with … well, I don’t know what. It looks to be glass
The other walls are wood or metal, many with doors. They’re cold to the touch as if no one cared to heat this room. The fall chill permeating the space seems to creep from the foundation instead of being insulated by the walls surrounding it.
I could laugh at my life. I’m a woman who’s forgotten everything of the last couple of years, standing in a formal red gown and heels, surveying a safe room in a house I don’t recognize, while my husband, whom I do not know, suffers with a gunshot wound in our garage.
I could laugh.
Or I could cry.
There’s no in between.
I need a distraction. I open the first set of double doors. It’s full of basic supplies, including bottles of water, granola bars, cans of soup. And that devious man—there’s a Keurig in here. Georgio the Italian espresso maker is impressive, but I can’t handle him. I can handle this.
I slide out the drawer the single serve coffeemaker sits on and load a pod, crack a bottle of water, and pretend not to cringe at the powdered milk. At least it’s something.
While that hisses and spits, I go to the next set of doors. They open on the largest safe I’ve ever seen in my life. The large round wheel on the front is almost big enough to steer a ship.
The next set of double doors is slatted. A gentle hum thatemanates there reminds me my coffee must be ready since there’s no other sound to break up the monotony in the room other than my breathing. Behind these doors is a wide metal rack of computer electronics. Colored wires, taut cables, and antennae are everywhere.
The last set of doors on this wall opens to a low-ceilinged bathroom. At least there’s that. I hadn’t thought of it, but it will be nice if I’m here longer than the few minutes it’ll take for Fitz to return.
I grab my coffee and drag one of the chairs toward the electronics closet. There’s warmth emanating from it, and it’s soothing as the damp chill in the room creeps across my skin. I curl up in the chair, wishing for a blanket and a book or TV or my phone or to be out of this God-forsaken room and know what the hell is happening.
Instead, I stare at the wall of glass in recognition. It’s just like the one in my bedroom. Maybe it is a TV, and I can deal with the boredom if I need it. “If I were a remote, where would I be?”
I’m talking to myself, aloud. That’s not good. I haven’t been alone long enough to do that.
How long have I been alone? And how is Christian?
I want to stand and pace. Instead, I search. The remotes around here aren’t the ones that come out of the box with a television or a cheap Blu-ray player. They’re high-tech tablets. Or I can assume they are.
There’s nothing in the closets I’ve already scoured. My gaze flickers to the table. There’s probably another hidden panel—an option I can no longer rule out—since my dark room concealed this space. I’m sure there’s more to this room than meets the eye. The table is metal and cold to the touch. I’m over the chill that permeates this room.
You know what? Fuck this. I did what they asked, but I’m no weak woman. Anything that could’ve gone down after that shot was fired must be done by now. Long enough for me to be hauled away. Long enough to make coffee and explore this room. Long enough for Christian to be at the hospital or at the very least for the ambulance to be en route.
I return to the secret entry to the safe room and push. Nothing moves. I try to find a switch or latch that I can pull to escape. What the hell? I’m trapped. No way in the world I’m taking this sitting down.
I beat on the door and yell.
But the only thing that greets me is silence.
I drag my fingers over the wall near the panel. It’s flawless. Everything in this house is. Which means that glass wall is no wall. From where it’s located, I can’t imagine it’s a two-way mirror or a fake wall. No need for a safe room inside a safe room. Which means it’s a TV or some kind of communications device. That server rack wouldn’t be needed if it weren’t.
I hike the gown above my knees and crouch to look under the table, the damp concrete floor digging into my bare knees. Underneath is pristine… and holds one button. I press it and a drawer slides out. Bingo!
Inside is a tablet remote.
And a pistol.
I’ve seenMr. and Mrs. Smith, but I’m no Angelina Jolie. There’s no thigh holster in my future. Hell, I don’t know a thing about guns. I eye it suspiciously and leave it where it is while removing the remote and beginning the sequence as Christian showed me in our bedroom.
What I find is jaw dropping.
Black and white squares comprise the wall. Camera angles of every room in the house, save one… my husband’s office isn’t anywhere to be seen.
Nor is there a person visible anywhere…
