Chapter 6
The Bees Knees
CORMAC
Ripping police tape off my front door to open it, my hands begin to shake.
What kind of person lived in this house?
I remember buying it, but I had hardly even started moving furniture into it when my memories begin to fog.
Every hazy recollection hurts as I fight for any piece of my past.
So much so that I've stopped trying.
My phone unlocks my door, the click echoing down the empty street.
Twisting the handle, I push the black steel door open and stand stock still, shocked at what's before me.
A tornado in the shape of my home.
More caution tape.
Piles of clothing thrown haphazardly around. My couch torn apart and cut into, its innards spilling onto the rug below.
Any art or photographs I might have had are strewn across my concrete kitchen counter, leaving holes in the walls from where they were torn off.
Now I understand why Clyde suggested I sue.
The damage is catastrophic.
As I traverse through, walking carefully over broken glass and dead plants, I find a few of my possessions that I'm sad to see destroyed.
The couch isn't even a couch anymore, just exposed wood and torn filling in the vague shape of a seat. My fucking TV was ripped off the wall, the mount hanging by one single screw, threatening to fall with even the slightest fucking provocation.
This place is a god damn nightmare.
I'm going to have to hire an entire cleaning team to clear this out.
Or just fucking burn it all down.
The errant thought is a tempting one.
But ultimately wouldn't help.
I've been having more and more of those the longer I'm back in the land of the living.
Violent, random thoughts and ideas that I should immediately dismiss.
Some I don't.
Some I let linger.
Like throttling the fucking cops who glared daggers at me in the hospital, spitting their venom at me like they knew I'd be disposed of before they could face consequences.
More proof of their manic investigation, my wall safe stares back at me, flung open with cash spilling out, half of it on the floor already, the other half crumpled and separated and very likely, missing at least a few bills.
My eyes roll, and a frustrated growl slips from my mouth, taking in the carnage around me.
I have a roof over my head, at least. And a fridge full of food that expired eight months ago.
Jesus Christ.
I spent almost a year living in the hospital, my only interactions the police and my doctors, and my house fucking reeks.
I slam the door closed, coming face to face with a magnetic day planner. One of the few things left undisturbed.
In the top left corner, there's a list of presumably important dates and names, and even phone numbers.
My bank account passcode, the random seven-digit code that—
No. I just logged in after getting my phone back, and it’s still the same as before.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that at least the money in my accounts hadn't been seized. I guess there was no point when I wasn't a flight risk, wasn't even a fucking walk risk.
But that code has been the same six digits since I first opened it at age 18.
This is... what is it, then?
Maybe to the business account?
I pull out my phone, ignoring the brutalized screen and blood still wedged into some of the cracks.
Several tries and different places that could be a code for, and... nothing.
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's something. 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 the only clue 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 I do believe 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.
A sigil in the upper right-hand corner of the top paper draws my attention, and I run my fingers across it.
Balor Industries.
Industries?
Rifling through the stack, I find no less than a dozen different company names, all tied back to Balor Industries.
The CEO? Me.
CFO? Skyler Beltran.
Skyler Beltran? That was one of the guys the cops asked me about.
Losing all semblance of patience, I jerk the drawers open, tearing through stacks and stacks of official-looking paperwork detailing years of silent ownership of companies within my purview.
Bars, "locally owned" liquor stores, distilleries, more than I ever imagined.
The one that started it all, the only one I remember, Balor Mead and Spirits, has grown into something I never could have predicted.
And not only here in the city, but across the country.
Every company has its own extensive list of employees.
I already know I'll have to track down this Skyler guy. Maybe he'll have some answers for me.
Hopefully, someone at the closest club I now own will know where to find him.
As I put everything back where I found it, frantically working as if the real owner might show up any minute and catch me snooping, I'm stopped in my tracks, frozen by the photograph facing back at me from the desktop.
There, smiling brilliantly, is the most beautiful creature I've ever seen.
Dazzling, kind eyes the color of chocolate, framed by the blackest lashes, so long they cast shadows across her cheekbones and the gorgeous little crinkles in her nose.
Those ridges along the bridge of her nose, coupled with her big eyes, remind me of a cute little fucking bunny.
Especially with those full, pink cheeks.
And Jesus Christ, even fuller curves. Her lips are a slash of deep burgundy, the lipstick taunting me with how it draws my attention to her slightly pouty lower lip.
And her fucking dress.
Low cut, fitted, and the same color as her lipstick, showing off far more than any fucking person should be lucky enough to see.
And there, wrapped around her waist, is my hand, pulling her close. At the edge of the photograph, you can clearly see my side profile, bathed in the warm light of the chandelier, smiling at her with an expression that could only be described as awe bordering on sordid hunger.
But fucking hell, who could blame me?
In the photo, we're nearly the same height, though I suspect it's because she's wearing heels, bringing her so close to me that I could have tasted her lips without even bending down to reach them.
Whoever she is, she must be mine. Of course, I'm fucking staring at her like she hung every god damn star in the sky. Anyone would be lucky to be on the arm of someone as stunning as her. Who wouldn't look at her like everything in this bleak universe centers around the only bright thing within it?
Next to it, in a smaller frame, is another picture of the same night. A different angle, my beauty and I sharing a drink, standing at the bar in some glittering gala full of expensive liquor and even more extravagant decor, designed to squeeze every penny out of those in attendance.
Her expression as she looks at me over her glass is curious, calculating almost, with one brow raised as I carelessly lean closer, my hand on the bartop beside us.
Just these two moments in time tell me a million stories of who we were to each other.