Page 106 of Stolen Omega

I need answers, and I’m not going to get them until I find out who brought me here, and why.

I step into the hall, wishing I had sunglasses in my pocket.

Like the bedroom, there are no windows out here, but there is an open door a little farther along, on the opposite side of the corridor. The room must be dark, because the entrance stands out starkly against the white, bright surroundings.

“Hello?” I call out, slowing down to listen for a response.

No one responds.

Clearly, someone unlocked my bedroom door, but that person doesn’t seem to be ready to show themselves. I clutch Ryder, the stuffed unicorn, to my chest, while I wonder if I should have tried to find something I could use as a weapon.

I stop outside the dark entrance. The door is wide open, but all I can tell is the door is painted white, like the rest of the hallway. I can’t see what’s inside.

Anything could be waiting for me in that room.

I start to turn away, ready to walk back to the bedroom and close the door behind me.

I felt safe there. I don’t know what’s in here.

Stepping into the dark unknown isn’t worth the risk.

Then, I hear a scraping noise, and a clatter, from inside the room.

“Why don’t you come inside, dear? You can wait for him in here.”

The woman’s voice is eerily familiar. It’s warm and welcoming.

The polar opposite of the foreboding room.

“Wait for who?” I call back.

“All right, thank you,” the voice of a little girl answers.

The lights flicker on inside the room, revealing a kitchen with tattered cabinets and a cheap linoleum floor. There’s no one in there. I realize I can hear a mechanical sound that could mean the voices are coming from some kind of device.

“My son is always up to something,” the woman says. “I never know where he is.”

I step into the room, and I realize it’s not just the woman’s voice that I recognize.

I know this kitchen, too. I’ve been here. I’ve pulled out one of these mismatched wooden chairs.

I’ve eaten at this table. Sandwiches, I think. Maybe cookies, too.

“What is this place?” I murmur, as I walk over to the fake window, with a landscape painted inside the frames. The street outside looks vaguely familiar, too, even if it’s not real.

“Have you had lunch, Zoey?”

I press my lips together, to stop myself from giving an answer.

It feels like the woman’s speaking to me, even if she’s not.

Maybe it’s because the little girl’s name sounds a bit like the nickname my best friend, Brooke, gave me in high school. I never really liked Zelena, so I adopted Zey as my own and anyone who really knows me uses it.

“No, Mrs. Morris. My mom doesn’t get home until two today.”

“Well, sit down and I’ll make you a sandwich.”

Where are the voices coming from, exactly?

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