Chapter 17 Snooping
SEVENTEEN
SNOOPING
LUCY
The penthouse is too quiet.
That’s not unusual. It has been all morning, mainly because I can’t bring myself to turn the television on. Oh, I tried. Nothing caught my attention. I was too busy thinking about things that I know I should leave alone, but I can’t.
I just… can’t.
Dallas left early. That was unusual. Since I first came to live here, we have had the habit of having breakfast around eight so that he’s out the door by nine.
This morning he barely touched the food he ordered up to the penthouse before he kissed my forehead like he always does now, telling me that I can use my phone to place an order for lunch in case he’s not back in time to eat with me.
Then he left, and the silence settled back in.
My phone doesn’t do much. He admits it was a cheap model he grabbed just so I had something, but if I need anything better, he’ll get me one.
I told him not to bother. He’s the only one I ever call, and even that’s rare.
So the phone he gave me is slow, doesn’t have any date, and barely connects to the Fortress’s wi-fi.
In a pinch, I can get in touch with Dallas, and the app connected to the Fortress’s kitchen works so I’m able to order whatever I want and they leave it outside the penthouse in a no-contact delivery. I’m good.
At least, for the first few weeks that I’ve been living with Dallas, I was good.
Lately? I can’t stop thinking, and I know better than to admit that to my husband.
When I showed signs of frustration that my sessions with Dr. Brannigan weren’t going anywhere, he gave me the choice of doubling them up or scaling them back.
I chose the second option. Now I’m scheduled to talk to the special every other week, and while that seemed like a good idea at the time, after what happened the other day when Dallas lost his temper… I’m wondering if that was a mistake.
There’s so much I don’t remember. So much I wish I did.
I don’t know why it bothers me so much that Dallas is a member of a secret society.
How does that really affect me? And, like, it’s supposed to be a secret, right?
But the way he reacted when I told him how Haven mentioned the Order of the Owed to me…
how he lost it when I slipped and used his name instead of his nickname…
I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something so much bigger than a membership to some silly boys club.
Alone again, I sit on the couch in the living room, holding a mug of coffee long after it’s gone cold.
Dallas says I shouldn’t push my mind too hard.
Dr. Brannigan says that the fleeting glimpses I get of my past is a good sign, that my memories will come back when they’re ready.
Everyone keeps telling me to be patient, but patience is really fucking hard to hold onto when every day feels like I’m living someone else’s life.
The penthouse is beautiful with it’s massive windows, dark hardwood floors, furniture that looks like it belongs in a magazine.
I have a husband who dotes on me, who could belong on the cover of another magazine, who fucks like a god without worrying that he’ll cheat on me.
What happened with that other girl was miscommunication to the nth degree—something I understand now that he’s explained the Order of the Owed and their tendency to arrange marriages…
thank God I didn’t have one of those—but nothing he’s said or done since makes me doubt his loyalty to me.
His honesty, though? That’s a different matter entirely.
What makes it worse is that none of this…
none of it feels like mine. Dallas wants me to have it, and I’ve been taking everything he offers me, but there’s that lingering feeling inside of me that something’s not right.
That this is too good to be true, and that when I do finally regain my memories, it’ll all come crashing down.
I know I shouldn’t want that to happen. But as time goes by, it feels like the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head.
Wouldn’t it just be better if I knew and I could get the heartbreak over with?
Because, one way or another, I know I’m going to break my own heart.
Maybe if we hadn’t been estranged when I had my accident, I’d believe in happy-ever-afters, but if we fell out once before, who’s to say that won’t happen again when I’m back to being the Lucy Wright who couldn’t make it worth with Dallas in the first place?
I stand up abruptly, cradling my mug.
The silence is suffocating, the loneliness too much to bear all of a sudden. You know what? Maybe… maybe I just need a change of scenery. I’m feeling claustrophobic being cooped up here with only my thoughts for company, and it’s not like I can’t leave the penthouse.
A couple of days ago, Dallas mentioned that I could move around the building if I wanted to, if I needed to stretch my legs.
He still doesn’t want me to go outside, but I wouldn’t need to.
The Samuel E. Reynolds building isn’t just offices.
It’s practically its own little world, with offices, business, restaurants, and stores.
If I want something, Dallas—as the owner of the penthouse and, I guess, a member of this society—has a tab going.
He’ll pay for it later. All I have to do is use his name.
I’ve been hesitant to do that. It felt like taking too much, and when I started to get the sinking feeling that he was hiding me up here, I remembered how quickly he was able to run after me after I bolted into the rain.
He finally admitted that he showed my picture to the head of security in the building, letting them know his wife was living in the penthouse with him, and that she’d been in an accident that left her in a vulnerable cognitive state.
Translation: I don’t know who the fuck I am, where I’m going, and they better keep an eye on me before I get into trouble.
I didn’t like the idea of having countless babysitters looking out for me so I… I just never left the penthouse. I didn’t need to. It has everything I could ever want—except, perhaps for answers about who exactly Dallas is.
He finally confessed that he has an office in the Fortress. I don’t know what he does for the society—he was quick to brush aside any my questions about that—but I know he inherited space other than the penthouse after his father died.
Maybe I should go see if I can find it. And if Dallas is at the office instead of down at the garage, I can get him to show me around.
And if he’s out… well, maybe I can entertain myself by looking around the space where he works here.
After all, he’s worked so hard to keep any sign of his personality out of the penthouse, with the exception of his bedroom.
I’d love to see his work space and see if I can learn more about my husband.
The elevator ride down feels oddly thrilling, like I’m doing something slightly forbidden. Since I have no idea where to begin my search, I decide to go to the lobby. Not because I plan on leaving the Fortress. I don’t. I’m just hoping there’s a directory down there.
The doors to the elevator slide open onto the hustling, bustling crowd of people coming and going.
I think about going to one of the three receptionists sat behind a large, half-circle counter, but they all look too busy.
I don’t want to distract them or, well, draw attention to me.
Instead, I move to the center of the lobby, whirling around, looking for a screen or a sign or a posting that shows the building’s directory.
When a blond man in a dark suit approaches me, I wonder if it’s obvious that I don’t belong. Then I notice the gun at his hip and the earpiece he’s wearing, and I’m like: shit.
No. It’s more like busted.
“Ms. Wright,” he murmurs in a deep voice that fits his bodybuilder frame. “Can I help you?”
I blink. He knows who I am. Of course he knows who I am.
And I know who he is, too.
Security.
I give him a small smile. “I’m sorry. I was supposed to meet Dallas at his office. He needed to give me something, but I got confused. I don’t remember where it is and I was hoping to find a directory so I could figure it out without bothering him.”
The man frowns. “I’m sorry, but he stepped out.”
There are probably hundreds and hundreds, if not thousands of employees in this building.
I highly doubt that the security team keeps tabs on all of them beyond watching them go in and out of the metal detectors.
Considering I’ve caught glimpses of my husband carrying a gun at times—I pointed it out once and he said it was for protection, and that work was dangerous sometimes which makes sense if some crook tried to steal a car from the garage—I don’t even think he goes through it.
He must have a way around it… which would also explain why the security team is on a first name basis with him.
Or, you know, it’s because he lives in the penthouse and probably pays their salary or something…
“Oh. He must’ve had to go to the garage. Maybe he left it upstairs for me…?”
His face gives nothing away as the guard considers me for half a second. “I could bring you up there, if you’d like. Show you where his office is.”
My face breaks into a genuine smile. “Really? That would be great!”
He nods. “Right this way.”
Together, we go into the elevator. I watch him select the floor, slightly surprised that he selects the one directly below our penthouse.
I shouldn’t have been. If he inherited the penthouse and the office from his dad, it would make sense that they came together.
With that much wealth—and I try hard not to think how loaded he must be in case he thinks I only ever married him in the first place for money—he could own half the building and I’d just nod and say ‘sure’.
The man stands at attention, hands folded behind his back, eyes straight ahead as the elevator takes us up again. I nibble nervously on my thumbnail, waiting for him to call bullshit on my excuse. He doesn’t, though. Instead, as the elevator doors open, he gestures to an open door on the right.
“There you go. Loni should be in there. If Dallas left something for you, she’ll know about it.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s my job.”
He salutes me, and as he does, I notice the ruined skin on his palm, just like Dallas’s, right before the doors close again.
Huh. Another member of the secret society. They’re like fucking ants: everywhere.
Shaking my head, I tiptoe toward the open door. I haven’t met Loni yet, though I’ve wanted to. I’ve heard so much about the wife of Dallas’s cousin, and I remember him saying in passing that she works as a secretary in the Fortress. I was under the impression that, like Dallas, Adrian was her boss.
Now that the security guard said that Loni should be in Dallas’s office, I’m beginning to realize I got that way wrong.
I’m prepared to give Loni the same story I gave the guard.
Hopefully, she thinks that Dallas forgot to tell her that he left the fictitious ‘something’ in his office.
That’ll give me the chance to look around his private space while he’s not around and, even more hopefully, assuage some of my lingering curiosity.
Only, when I step into the office, it’s completely empty.
Oh, I see a desk. It’s set to the left, with a computer monitor for a desktop, a keyboard, and a handset phone covering most of the desktop.
Basic hotel-style covers the walls. Like upstairs, the floors are hardwood, and there’s a hint of perfume in the air that tells me Loni was here earlier, but she’s gone now.
Other than the desk, I see two visitor’s chairs along the wall, plus a closed door. Figuring Dallas’s office must be behind it, I strode over to the door, giving the knob a turn. It doesn’t go anywhere.
Locked.
It’s locked.
Great.
You know what? I should leave. That’s what a good wife would do. I can’t get into his office, which was my whole reason for coming down here, and neither Dallas or Loni are here. It’s just me—
—me and unsupervised desktop.
I bite the corner of my mouth as I look at it. I hate to admit it, but curiosity has been growing inside my chest for ages now, pressing against my ribs. Dallas made me promise not to use my phone to look myself up or see if I can find anything about my past.
He didn’t say anything about borrowing her secretary’s computer…
It’s a flimsy rationalization. I know that.
He’s trying to protect me, but the longer I’m living without my full memories, the more I can’t shake the feeling that he’s hiding something.
I mean, he said looking into my history could overwhelm my mind while it’s still healing, but the more I think about it, the less that explanation makes sense.
Wouldn’t a trigger like that be enough to jolt a few memories back into place? Seems like it to me.
I don’t know if I’ll actually be able to find anything on there. For all I know, it has spreadsheets or documents or solitaire on it and that’s all. It might even be password protected and completely useless to me.
One thing for sure? I won’t know unless I check.
Before I think better of what I’m doing, I dash over to the door, looking left, looking right, checking to see if anyone is coming. When I see that the coast is clear, I ease the door shut. There. That should give me a few seconds’ warning to get out from behind Loni’s desk.
Slipping behind it, I don’t take the seat.
I bend over instead, poking a random key to see if the computer is locked or if it’s just a simple screensaver.
Yes! The screensaver disappears, leaving behind a screen that is open to the weirdest looking internet browser I’ve ever seen.
And maybe that’s my disassociate amnesia at work again, but I’m pretty sure this isn’t normal.
I peer closer, reading what it says over the search bar:
THE ORDER OF THE OWED ARCHIVES
My heart skips a beat. What the… Dallas made the society sound like no big deal, but they actually have their own archives online?
That’s so weird. And I can’t see how it would have anything to do with me, since my palm is whole and I’m definitely not a member, but since this looks like the only search engine I can find, I shrug my shoulders and type my name into the box.
L-U-C-Y W-R-I-G-H-T
To my shock, a single article populates almost instantly.
It’s a wedding announcement.