Page 20 of Dangerous Games

“Don’t eat too quickly,” she said, studying my face. “You look pale.”

I feel a bit off too, but I don’t tell her that. I use the fork to carefully cut a bite of egg, my mouth watering, but the moment it is on my tongue, I feel nauseous. The flavors seem off, as if my tastebuds are lying to me. Part of me fears that Dominic drugged the eggs too, but why? What reason would he have to drug me more? I’ve already slept off the worst of it.

“Not hungry?” Mika wipes her hands on a towel and watches me. I try another bite with the same effect.

“I’m sorry, it tastes off. I’m starving, but I just think I’ll pass.” I push the plate away, my stomach growling in protest. I can’t eat food I don’t trust. Maybe there is nothing wrong with it, but knowing Dominic adds sleeping medicine to my tea doesn’t give me much confidence when it comes to the food now.

“Suit yourself.” Mika picks up the plate and dumps it in the trash. “Dominic is out for a while. You can visit the library or sit in the garden, though if you’re going out you should do it soon. It looks like it'll rain.” Her eyes shift toward the window, and I follow her gaze. Storm clouds hang over the property like the ones that haunt me in my dreams.

“Thanks, I’ll go to the library.”

I stand and walk out of the kitchen, this time careful to avoid the sacred room that earned me the “punishment” last time. I want Dominic to come for me like he did last time, though. The way he thought he punished me, only to leave me pleading for more of him like an addict. The man is cocaine in a suit, addictive and dangerous, but the only thing that sates my need for control. And after last night, I need my control back.

I take a deep breath and stride towards the windows in the corner, flipping on the lights.

The room is illuminated with an array of books—more than I have ever seen before. Each one contains tales of adventure that I can only dream of having. He has so many books, there's no way he could read them all—but I hope that given enough time, I will be able to. Reading has always been my sanctuary; it allows me to leave this world behind and find solace in some foreign land. A place where I don't fear for my life: where I can explore whatever my heart desires without ever leaving the comfort of home.

I walk the length of the room, drawing my finger along one row of books. There isn’t a speck of dust, a testament to Mika’s housekeeping. She runs a tight ship, and I suspect she may be ex-military. Each one is cataloged too, like in a real library. I see an old-fashioned card catalog, probably a remnant taken from a city library as they went digital. Its tiny drawers are labeled with Dewey Decimal identification. I fumble through a few cards in the top right drawer, seeing nothing that piques my interest, so I head for the ladder. It is stuck in place, and it takes me a while to move it, but once I get it going, it glides along the wall with ease.

There is a particular book on the second shelf from the top that I see. It intrigues me with its red leather-bound cover. I climb the ladder and precariously reach for it. I’m not quite close enough, but my fingers stretch out to grasp it. As I pull it back to my chest, I see the title says, “Anne of Green Gables,” and it brings back fond memories of childhood. I descend the ladder with my prize and look around the room.

There are two couches facing each other on opposite sides of an old wooden coffee table. All of them are Victorian Era pieces, preserved with impeccable taste. But I choose the floral wingback chair in the corner next to the Tiffany lamp. It looks comfortable and it draws me in. I sit in the chair with my grumbling stomach and open to the first page.

In a matter of moments, the story captivates me, and I’m drawn in. I sit for hours reading the story, ignoring my bladder and my thirst. I’m more than halfway through when Mika finds me, as if she wears an alert bracelet tied to my hydration levels. She sets a cup of cool lemonade next to me along with a few tiny finger sandwiches and smiles.

“My favorite too,” she whispers, a twinkle in her eye, and when she leaves, my eyes follow her. I set the book down as I sip the lemonade, and I notice a basket by the door which I had previously passed by. I was in awe of the books; I never saw the basket containing old newspapers. It has me curious, so I pick up one of the finger sandwiches and stand, walking over to the old newspapers.

In it I find some newer papers with more recent headlines. Things that happened within the past few months. When I dig deeper, I see things that happened years ago, clippings of the war in Iraq, things that happened in Russia in the eighties. But my heart stops when I read the headline on one particular paper.

“Young Man Barely Survives Vicious Robbery Attempt.”

Jimmy’s face is plastered on the paper’s front page, details of the horror he suffered revealed in the story’s columns. My heart races. Dominic knows everything, not just what happened to me. And he knew this before he hired Jimmy; I am willing to bet on it. Maybe this is why he hired Jimmy too, to gain some leverage over him, and when it didn’t work, he took me. Dominic has been snooping too much and it infuriates me. What right does he have to do all this research on us? Play us like we are some cheap violins or something? And yet he remains so secretive to me…

Anger drives me, motivating me to do what I’m about to do. He hated when I was in that room with the painting, and I never did remember where I’ve seen that woman before. So, it’s the first place I go. I march down the hall, shoving that finger sandwich in my mouth, and try the knob. It’s locked, which frustrates me. He really doesn’t want me in here, and now I have to go in. It’s a matter of principle now. He snoops around my past; I snoop around his past.

With no way to pick a lock, I race up to my room to rifle through things until I find a bobby pin in the bathroom. It’s exactly what I need to pick the lock, so I stuff it in my pocket and hurry back down to the door, checking on my way several times to make sure no one is watching. The knob is old, the type that uses a skeleton key, not a modern lock. While I’ve had my share of locks to pick, this one challenges me. I work at it for several minutes before I give up.

In frustration, determined to find out what Dominic is hiding, I look around the hallway for anything that may help me gain entrance to this damn room. My eyes land on a large metal bust of some man I don’t recognize. It will do the trick.

I heft the bust over to the door and hoist it as high as my arms will allow. It’s heavy, so gravity does most of the work as I bring it down with force on the doorknob. It only takes one hit, and the knob breaks free, bouncing a few times before rolling along the hallway floor. The bust drops to my feet and I leap up to avoid it smashing my feet. It, too, goes rolling, but stops much more quickly due to its odd shape. At least the bust doesn’t break, which is more than I can say for the door. Even the wood has a crack that runs from the knob to the striker plate, and the door swings open easily.

I stand there a bit chuffed with myself for breaking in, but then I waste no time marching into the room. It isn’t at all how I saw it last. It looks more like my room after I smashed everything. Drawers are turned out, lamps smashed. The only thing in this room left intact is the painting on the wall and the four-post bed, though the sheets are torn from it as well. I stand in the doorway for a moment surveying the damage and all I can see is pain—Dominic’s pain.

“I’m going to find out who you are, Dominic, and then I’m going to ruin you.” I head into the chaos, sorting through papers and other things laying around. Part of me hesitates, like I’m intruding on something I have no business knowing. But I’m so angry with him, so enraged that he thinks he can manipulate me and my brother. I have to do this. I will myself to move into the room farther, uncovering things carefully so I don’t do any more damage than what is already done.

Clothing is strewn about, women’s clothing. It isn’t modern clothing though, almost as if this room were a time capsule, commemorating something that happened twenty years ago when fashion was very different than today. I recognize one piece of clothing on the ground and pick it up, holding it in the air. It is the same outfit as the one in the portrait on the wall. This room belonged to this woman. I know it.

Mesmerized for a moment, staring at the portrait, I drop the dress and continue my search. Glass shards pepper the scattered clothing and papers. I’m careful not to step on any more of them than is necessary to sort through things. A piece of glass crunches beneath my foot and I look down. The corner of a brown binder peeks out at me, and I kneel to uncover it. It’s buried beneath the pink bedding that was once on the bed.

I pull the binder out to see it isn’t a binder at all. It’s an old family picture album. The cover has a picture of Dominic when he was a child, hair parted down the center. He’s adorable, as if time is what soiled him and ruined his personality. I fold open the front cover and look through the pages, relaxing back until I’m seated and leaning against the bed. The images tell a fascinating tale of five brothers.

I flip through the entire photo album but all I see are pictures of boys being boys—a few images of cars and one of an old house, maybe this house before it was updated. So, I pick up another album unearthed when I pulled this one out. This one has no image on the front cover, so I’m left to my imagination as I fold open the cover. The first picture is of a couple on their wedding day. The woman is the same from the portrait on the wall. She is happy, wearing a white dress; they stand cutting their cake.

It looks like a happy union, smiling faces in every single one of the pictures in the album. But the more pages I turn, the glummer the woman looks. Her smiles fade to calm expressions, then to sadness that hides in her eyes. Something happened to her, something that hurt her desperately. Something maybe she didn’t speak about.

I look up at the portrait, clearly painted before this horrible event, and I wonder what it was that hurt her to steal the life from her eyes. My heart clenches in my chest as I recall my own life-altering event and wonder if hers was similar. I find myself connecting with her somehow, though I don’t know who she is still. My anger with Dominic has faded for the moment as my curiosity about this woman takes over. I look back down at the album, with only a few more pages left to turn.

My breath catches as I turn the page and see the next photo. This one isn’t a picture at all, but a newspaper clipping. Her eyes claw at my skin, haunting me, threatening me now with violence because I know who she is. I know what happened to her. And I know where it happened. I feel dizzy, like I’ll pass out, but my body leaps into action. I bolt off the ground and stand there, letting the album drop to my feet.

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