If you relax and try to have a good day, you will be much happier. Just remember that the people around you care about you very much and only want you to be safe. Do what they say.
You are in good hands. Trust me. Love,
Tess
I look up from the letter in my shaking hands. That man is still standing in front of me. Graham, he says his name is. My husband, apparently. And if this letter is to be believed, we’re happily married. He’s been taking care of me since this horrible accident took my whole life away one year earlier.
“Tess?” he says.
I look up at his face. This stranger is attractive—I can’t say he isn’t. Especially dressed in that expensive dark suit. But my husband? How can I be married to this man? Harry Finch is the love of my life. Harry and I are going to get married. He popped the question on my computer keys, and we’re going on a honeymoon somewhere warm with lots of beaches.
I look down at my left hand, expecting to see the ring Harry gave me. The modest little diamond that he saved up for over several months. But it’s not there. Instead, there’s a much bigger diamond—almost embarrassingly large.
“I know this is hard to accept.” Graham settles down on the edge of the bed next to me. His hair is still damp from the shower, a few water droplets glistening in the short strands of his hair, which is darkened by moisture. “But after
the initial shock, you’re usually okay. You usually have a nice day.”
I run my fingers through my dark hair. I can’t get used to how short it is. And then when my fingertips touch my scalp, I feel something strange. A scar. A jolt of electricity goes through my skull and I jerk my hand away.
Graham pushes his glasses up his nose. “They did surgery. To remove some of the blood from your brain. That’s why we had to cut your hair, but it’s mostly grown back.”
Gingerly, I reach for my scalp again. I trace the raised skin, where the hair will never grow again. There’s a long scar in the shape of a C on the right side of my skull.
“God,” I murmur.
Graham attempts to reach for my hand, but I pluck it away. I’m not ready to let this stranger touch me. Not yet.
I look over at the fancy dresser across from the bed—at all the photos of me and Graham in our previously happy life. The pictures span our lives until a year ago, when I apparently was in a horrible accident that permanently damaged my brain. I look at the center photo, of me in a gorgeous white wedding dress and Graham standing next to me, looking devastatingly handsome in a tuxedo.
“How come the glass is broken on our wedding photo?” I ask.
He looks up sharply, following my gaze to the wedding photo. “Oh. You dropped it yesterday. I haven’t had a chance to get it replaced.”
I stare at the broken glass in the photo, the scar on my head aching dully. Our wedding photo is broken—smashed to pieces. My face is a spider web of cracks. There’s something unsettling about it. Why wouldn’t he put the photo away until he could replace the frame?
“Why don’t you go take a shower?” Graham suggests. “I’ll go downstairs and make us some breakfast before I have to leave for work.”
I don’t want to say this to him, because he’s being so nice to me, but I’m deeply relieved that Graham is going to leave the room, and even more relieved that he’s going to work and will be out of the house all day. I don’t want to be anywhere near this stranger.
I return to the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I reach for the doorknob to lock the door, but that’s when I realize there’s no lock on it. When Harry and I bought this house, there was a lock on the bathroom door. I remember it distinctly.
Where did the lock go?
I suppose it was removed at some point. Maybe Graham felt it wasn’t safe for me to be locked in the bathroom, given my situation. But I hate the idea that anybody could burst into this room at any moment.
I force myself to look at my reflection in the vanity mirror. It’s so strange. It’s me, but not me. But also definitely me. The short hair is the most jarring part of all, but my face looks different in subtle ways. Ways that maybe only I would notice. A few creases around my eyes. My cheeks aren’t quite as full.
And there are dark purple circles under my eyes.
I pull off my night shirt and drop it on our shiny new toilet. I run my fingers over the bare skin of my chest. It’s not that different from what I remember. But if I continue to have these memory problems over years and decades, that will change. Someday, I’m going to walk over to the mirror and see an old lady staring back at me.
The thought of it brings on a wave of nausea. I double over, clutching my stomach. I need to calm down. It’s like that letter I wrote said—if I relax and accept it, I’ll be fine.
And then I notice something on my thigh. Black ink.
Somebody scrawled a sentence on my thigh, above where my nightshirt ends. It looks like my own handwriting, but it’s hard to tell. I squint at the words, and a chill goes through me when I realize what they say.
Graham is drugging you.
Oh my God.
I’m shaking so badly that I barely make it to the toilet before my legs give out beneath me. I sit there, staring at the message scribbled on my leg. I’m obviously the one who wrote it there. It’s upside down, the way it would be if I were writing it. Nobody else could have written that. And I wrote it in a place where I didn’t think Graham would see.
My husband is drugging me. I don’t know whether I have a head injury, but either way, something is going on. He’s doing this to me.
I’ve got to get out of here. I’ve got to call the police.
I peek outside the bathroom—Graham has gone downstairs. I forget about showering and slip outside the bathroom. I fumble through the drawers, looking for something to wear. I find piles of women’s clothing, but none of it looks familiar to me. All my old stuff is gone. My Weezer T-shirt. My fuzzy green sweater I always wore on St. Patrick’s Day. My favorite pair of blue jeans with the giant hole in the right knee that Harry used to joke made me look like I was in a grunge band. Everything is gone.
But I don’t have time to care about any of that. I select a sweater and a pair of jeans, then slide my feet into a pair of blindingly white sneakers, so new that they still feel stiff. I look around for a wallet or any kind of money—I usually keep my wallet on the clothing dresser.
But there’s nothing. And my phone is MIA as well.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll leave here with no money and I’ll find the nearest police station. I’ll tell them what I know about Graham. I’m sure they can do some blood or urine tests to find out if he’s been drugging me or not.
I try to be as quiet as possible as I walk down the stairs. I don’t know Graham, and I don’t know what he’s capable of. Well, I know he’s capable of poisoning me. But I don’t know if he’s the sort of person who would attack me if I tried to leave. Better not to find out.
The living room is quiet. It looks so different from the way it used to look when Harry and I lived here. It looks like the living room out of a magazine about the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Where did the money come from to buy all this stuff?
I smell bread toasting in the kitchen. The sizzle of a frying pan. Graham is occupied at the stove. Now is the perfect time to slip away.
I reach the front door, my legs wobbling underneath me. I feel so lost. I don’t even know how I’m going to get to the police station. I wish Harry were here. I need to find him. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’ll help me. I don’t believe what that letter said about him having done bad things.
As soon as I get out of here, I’m going straight to the police and I’m going to find Harry.
I reach for the lock on the front door. But then my hand stops, inches short. There’s a lock, but not one that you turn from the inside. Instead, there’s a keyhole.
Oh God, this door is locked from the inside. I can’t get
out.
I turn the knob, hoping this is some sort of mistake. It’s
not. I can’t get out of this house without the key to the lock on the door.
I’m trapped here. “Tess?”
I whirl around. Graham is standing there, holding a spatula in his right hand. He raises his eyebrows at me. “What are you doing, Tess?”
I wipe my sweaty hands on my jeans. “I… I need some fresh air. Could I go out?”
“Maybe after breakfast.” He nods in the direction of the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s eat.”
I could scream. I could try to attack him. But what good would that do? I saw him without his shirt on—he’s a muscular guy and he would have absolutely no problem fending off any attacks from the likes of me. And even if I
momentarily disabled him, I can’t leave this house without a key.
Maybe it’s better for him to think I trust him. For now. “Okay,” I say.
When I get into the kitchen, I have to blink a few times. Like the living room, the old skeletal kitchen that used to be falling apart at the seams has now been replaced with… well, my dream kitchen. Not that I’m the sort of person who has a dream kitchen, but God, this kitchen is gorgeous. I sit down at the kitchen island on one of the barstools. There’s a flat rectangular device on the table.
“What’s that?” I ask.
Graham’s lips twitch. “It’s your phone.”
A phone! And not just a phone—it’s one of those iPhones. I always wanted one of those, but it was so far out of our budget. But now, not only do I have my dream kitchen, but I have my dream phone.
But none of that matters. All that matters is that I can call 911 with this phone. I can let the police know that this crazy man is holding me hostage and drugging me and making me live in this house that is… well, gorgeous, but that’s beside the point. I’m trapped here.
And now I can call for help. But I have to wait for the right moment to do it.
There’s a scratching noise coming from the back door, which looks like it also has a keyhole the same as the front door. Graham walks over to the door and reaches into his pocket for the keys. He unlocks the door and a beautiful golden retriever bounds into the kitchen. The dog makes a beeline for me, and for a second, I’m frightened, until the dog licks my hand.
“What…” I manage. “What’s this?”
Graham smiles at me. Despite the words scribbled on my leg, he doesn’t seem evil. He seems like a nice guy. I mean, he’s making me breakfast. And if he were keeping me hostage, why would he give me a phone? This doesn’t
quite make sense. But then again, nothing about this situation makes sense.
“This is Ziggy,” he says. “He’s our dog. Your dog. We got him after your accident last year.”
Ziggy. I freeze at the mention of his name. Does Graham realize that’s the same name as Harry’s pet bird? I’m sure he doesn’t. It seems like another secret message I’ve given to myself.
I run my hand over the dog’s fur. The effect is instantly calming. I once read that petting an animal can be a form of therapy. Ziggy pants up at me, his expression almost like a smile. I love him instantly.
Graham scrapes three slices of bacon onto two plates, then gives me a piece of toast that’s mostly black. I watched him cook our breakfast, but there’s no chance I’m eating it. After all, I have no idea what he put in it before I came into the kitchen. Of course, if he’s making himself a plate, it’s unlikely there’s poison in it. But maybe he’s not going to eat it—he’s just going to pretend to eat it. Or maybe he’s been building up immunity to the poison by gradually ingesting trace doses over time.
A ring tone echoes in the kitchen. At first, I think I’ve got a call, but when I look at my phone, the screen is still black. It’s Graham’s phone that’s ringing.
“Sorry, Tess.” He swipes on the screen. “I’ve got to take this one.”
Graham wanders into the living room with the phone at his ear. His deep voice floats out of the room—it sounds like it’s a call related to business. I wonder what he does. He’s my husband, and I know nothing about him. I don’t even know his last name.
All I know is he’s done something terrible to me.
I look at the two plates of black toast and burnt bacon. They don’t look appealing, but even less so with the knowledge that they could be tainted. Or at least, mine could be tainted. I glance in the direction of the living room
to make sure Graham’s back is turned. Then I quickly swap the two plates.
The next thing I do is pick up my cell phone. I’ve never used an iPhone before, but it’s strange the way my fingers somehow know what to do. The phone unlocks under my thumb, and I know exactly which button to press to bring up the screen to make a phone call. And I know exactly who to call.
I dial 911.
“911 Operator. What’s your emergency?”
I lower my voice several notches. “My husband is holding me hostage in our home. Please help me.” In the other room, it sounds like Graham is ending his own call. I don’t have much time. “This is my address.”
I recite my address, and before the operator can say anything, I hang up.
Graham strides back into the room, his phone still gripped in his palm. He adjusts his blue tie that matches the color of his eyes. I wonder how long the police will take to get here. I imagine them bursting into our house, and Graham attempting to charm them… or maybe stammering excuses for what he’s done. But the police won’t buy it. I mean, the lock on the door clearly shows imprisonment. He can’t hide that.
“Everything okay, Tess?” he asks.
“Yes, of course.” I force a smile. I have to pretend everything is fine, or else God knows what he’ll do. What if it becomes a hostage situation?
He looks pointedly at my plate. “You’re not eating.”
I stare down at the toast and bacon. The toast is charred to a crisp, and the bacon is black. I’d have to scrape off most of the toast to make it edible. And I’m nervous to eat it. Until Graham sits down across from me and starts digging into his food. It’s not the plate he thought he’d be eating from, and he obviously thinks it’s safe, so that means my own food must be safe.
But I still have no appetite.
Ziggy whimpers at my side. He licks my hand and looks up at me hopefully. I take a piece of bacon off my plate and offer it to him. He gobbles it up.
Graham’s jaw clenches. “I wish you wouldn’t feed him off the table.”
“Sorry,” I say, even as I’m passing Ziggy a second piece of bacon. “I didn’t know.”
“Right, but… common sense, Tess.”
“Of course, you’re right,” I say. And I pass Ziggy another piece of bacon.
Graham watches me, his eyes narrowed. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Just taking my time.” I glanced down at the clock display on my phone. It’s only been a few minutes since I called 911. How long do they take to get here? I assume they would use sirens in a situation like this. Or maybe not. “So, um, how did we meet?”
The right corner of Graham’s lips quirks up. “Actually, I saved your life.”
“Really?”
He nods. “We were in this restaurant, and you were a few tables away from me. And I heard you making a sound like you were choking. I turned around and your entire face was turning blue. So I came over and did the Heimlich.”
I scrape a bit of the black off the toast with my fork. “I thought when people are choking, they don’t make any sound.”
“Well, you did.” He glances at his watch. “Let me get you something to drink.”
I watch as he gets up out of his chair and grabs a container out of the refrigerator. He pulls a glass from the cabinet above the sink and pours a big heaping glass of blood-red liquid. What in the hell is that?
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Pomegranate juice.” He brings the glass over to the kitchen island and drops it down in front of me. “It’s your favorite.”
I crinkle my nose. “My favorite?”
“Oh yes.” He sits down and takes another bite of his bacon. “You love that stuff. Yesterday you had a second glass. I thought I was going to have to go out and buy more of it.”
Is he serious? That can’t possibly be true. I would feel like a vampire drinking that stuff. And either way, I’m not drinking anything he gives me. I want to be coherent when the police arrive.
He arches an eyebrow. “You’re not even going to try it?” “I’m not thirsty.”
“Are you sure you’re okay, Tess?” He tilts his head to the side. “You don’t seem like yourself. Maybe we should go to the doctor.”
At even the mention of seeing my doctor, a fist clenches in my chest. I hate going to the doctor. I’ve hated doctors ever since my mother’s breast cancer diagnosis when I was a child. Just walking into a hospital makes me ill.
“No,” I say. “I’m fine. Really.”
“Are you sure?” His blue eyes fill with what genuinely looks like concern. Apparently, he’s an excellent actor. “Because if you’re not feeling well, we should see the doctor.”
I open my mouth to protest again, but before I can get the words out, the doorbell rings, followed by a loud rap on the door.
It’s the police.
