STELLA
Should I do it?
The obvious answer is no.Not only would I be committing an act of deceit, but I would also be showing a lack of loyalty to Mom and Dad. This could be dangerous. I may come to regret my misdeed. Sure, it would be a small one compared to six years ago, but that was different. There had been no planning, no premeditation.
On the other hand, if I chicken out now, my window of opportunity might close and not reopen anytime soon.
The howling of the wind distracts me from my dilemma. With the heavy snowstorm blowing outside, I’m so much happier under the duvet in my room inside my parents’ well-heated house than at my workstation in Mom’s clinic in Rumilly. Or worse, outdoors. At this time of day, I could very well be trudging against the gale to the train station to fetch something Mom forgot when we drove out. Alternatively, I could be headed to the post office, or to the bank, or on some other errand for one of my overachieving parents, either in Rumilly or here in Vosier-en-Haut.
Shivering at that mental image, I rub my arms.Good thing I made more tea!I add a teaspoonful of honey to my mug and take a sip.
Mmm, nice.As far as the remedies for the common cold go, no pill can beat a cup of tea with honey, a good book, and a warm bed.
I gaze out the window, nursing the mug between my hands. One of my many shameful little secrets is that I love having a cold, especially the kind with a low-grade fever. As a dental assistant, it’s impossible for me to go to work sneezing, coughing, and blowing my nose, even if I’m otherwise fine. Our patients wouldn’t like that. So, instead of another day at my mind-numbingly boring job, I get to be alone at home in the company of fictional characters, marveling at their moxie.
A sense of unease comes over me. I reopen the book and try to read, but the unease lingers. I do my best to ignore it, but it only grows stronger as the morning wears on. Suddenly, I can’t take it anymore.
Swearing at myself, I pull on a warm sweater, slip into my sneakers, grab my phone, and head downstairs.
As I enter the basement, I hesitate again.
Should I really be doing this? What if my parents find out?
But the pull of curiosity is too strong. I approach the room with the locked door and hold a magnifying glass to the number pad on the lock. The angst gives me an urge to pee, but I’m also inexplicably excited. Elated, even. For the first time in the last six years of my life, I’m doing something unsanctioned by my parents. I’m having an adventure. Stella Jezequel, the world’s most prudent twenty-two-year-old, is being bold.
My hands tremble as I move the magnifying glass from button to button, searching for the ones that no longer have the tiny ink dot I’d applied to them yesterday.
There, I can see one!It’s number two. And four. And seven and eight.
I open the Notes app on my phone and write down those numbers before moving to the next step. Yesterday, on my first day alone at home, my energy surged midmorning. I decided to exercise by walking up and down the stairs from the basement to the attic and back. On my second round I noticed the combination lock on the door to one of the rooms in the basement.
How long had it been there? What’s in that room?
I couldn’t remember. My first impulse was to ask Mom or Dad, whoever got home first in the evening. But doubt crept in. I was sure the lock hadn’t been there long. I would’ve noticed it. That meant my parents had had a locksmith install it, or Dad did it himself—being a DIY whiz—when I wasn’t at home.
Thing is, I’m almost always at home.Even now that Philippe and I are engaged, we still go out only once every couple of weeks as we’ve done for years. And Gaby, my bestie, has no time left for friends between her new job and new boyfriend.
After I noticed the lock, I went back to my room, fired up my laptop, and researched the various techniques to crack the code for a combination lock. The ink-dot method was one of them, and it’s the one I picked.
According to my research, I can try the twenty-four possible combinations by pressing the four buttons I outed. I start, noting every combination I enter. After testing a dozen sequences without success, the lock clicks.
Carefully, I open the door and peek inside.
The room is dark, the floor is carpeted, and the ceiling and walls are bare. It has no windows or openings besides the ventilation shaft. It’s almost empty, with no boxes or piles of old junk. The only exception is a bed, the contours of which I make out in the darkest corner. In the opposite corner, there’s a cubicle the size of a small washroom.
The stale air smells faintly of mildew and something else that I can’t quite pinpoint.Antiseptic?A chill fills my body as I step inside, sensing that something is amiss. As my eyes adjust, I notice a light fixture on the ceiling. Is there a switch somewhere by the door? I grope for it.
There!I flip it on.
My mouth falls open. There’s a man lying on the bed! He’s cocooned in wool blankets from the chest down, and his legs are elevated. His head, shoulders, and upper arms are bandaged.
Not trusting my eyes, I sidle closer with my heart hammering in my chest. His face is pasty. Strands of red hair poke out from the bandage around his forehead. He appears unconscious. But he’s real.
I take a hesitant step forward and touch his upper arm wrapped in layers of white gauze.Yes, he’sreal!
Is he in a coma?What’s he doing in our basement? I can’t imagine why my parents would keep him here.
The man stirs. His eyelids flicker open. He turns his head ever so slightly and, with effort, shifts his unfocused blue gaze to me.
