Plopping onto a metal chair, I rub a hand over my head, the short strands prickling at my palm as I fight to remember what that code is for.
I shouldn't be so obsessed with it. It could just be an old code, but I can't shake the feeling that it'ssomething. Why would I have it right there if it wasn't something important? And why call it a bank code when it wasn't?
It's not the code for my safe.
Well, maybe it was. It wouldn't matter now that they used a fucking prybar to break it open.
Burying my aching head in my hands, I fight the urge to let myself cry now that I'm in the safety of my own home and away from prying eyes.
Furious, raging tears flood my lower lids anyway.
Nothing makes any sense. I have no one to help fill in the last few years of my life.
I'm alone and completely clueless. The only fucking thing I know is that those seven numbers are significant somehow.
"God fucking damn it," I drag myself out of my chair, determined to at least type the code into what's left of the safe to push it from my mind.
With more force than necessary, I shut the stupid steel thing, and it bounces back open, the locking mechanism utterly destroyed.
As my finger presses each button, following the code exactly, my heart races at the prospect of having a single piece of the puzzle put back together. Just a glimpse into what's changed since my last memory.
With the final digit, the safe whirs, the gears moving as if to unlock, if only all the pieces were still there to do so.
Well,I sigh,I guess that's that.
Before I can turn away, the wall behind the safe slides open.
I stand frozen, feeling like I'm trapped in a bad spy movie.
Why would I attach the secret wall to the safe?
I mean, I guess it makes sense. A steel safe would throw off metal detectors if they used them. They'd break it open and find something innocuous and move on, especially since I know I had a painting over it.
A secret hidden behind a secret behind a painting.
And a code only I would realize wasn't mine.
My mind spins out of control, whirring just like the gears that opened the door, cycling in circles just to avoid having to actually walk through the door and find out what horrible things I've hidden behind it.
But it's theonlyclue I have, even if it's a terrifying one.
So I step into the darkness, hoping I can hold onto a semblance of who I am when I discover who I was.
On instinct, I find a switch on the wall, illuminating a room that's such a stark contrast to the one behind me.
The office space is so immaculate, I find it hard to believe it belonged to me. But Idobelieve it belongs to the same person who supposedly committed those crimes and left no trace of evidence behind.
Concrete flooring and walls, thick enough that nothing would be able to sense anything in here, greet me with flat gray dullness.
The steel desk pushed against the far wall draws my immediate attention.
Anything I didn't want them to find would be in here.
Couches line one corner, a coffee table settled between them, complete with countless dark brown rings across the wood finish.
My home office was tucked behind a two-layer safe, where no one would even think to look.
A pounding rhythm settles into my chest as I walk towards the desk stacked cleanly with paperwork.
