Page 93 of Lethal Threat
The room’s chilly. With a shiver, I slowly sit up. A raw, throbbing headache fills my skull. My hand is shaking as I brush it over my face…
Where am?—
The pace of my heart skyrockets as I look around the unfamiliar room.
I leap off the couch and trip over a paperback book. Somehow I catch myself on the arm of the sofa.
My vision wavers.God, this headache…
Nothing makes sense. Why don’t I know where I am?
The window’s are covered by heavy curtains. When Ipull one back, I’m looking at a porch. Beyond that the only thing I can see is flying snow.
Winter. But where?
There’s a lot of snow. It must be the North or the West. We don’t get snow like this in eastern Virginia.
I go to another window. Same thing. More snow. A small workshop sits at the edge of an opening. The roof is laden with piles of snow. A small light illuminates a swath in front of it.
Weird. Everything is so strange. Like I’ve woken up in a far, far away place.
Cliche, I know, but I pinch my face.
Okay. That hurt. I’m definitely awake.
I spin around in the foyer. “Hello!”
My voice echoes. It bounces around the cavernous cabin, pinging off the beams. The only answer to my call is silence.
My legs are unsteady as I search the house, room by room.
No one here, and I don’t recognize anything.
But someone’s been sleeping in the guest room. And there are men’s clothes in the master bedroom closet.
The soap in the man’s bathroom is familiar. Cedar. Warm tones. I hold it to my nose as I walk around the bedroom.
So weird. This is a nice house. But whose house is this?
The reflection in the bathroom mirror catches my attention. I look different. Maybe thinner. Something has changed. I touch my face.
Are those the remnants of a bruise?
There’s a slight yellow tinge to my cheek. I lean in close, look at my eyes.
I lean my head, twist this way and that. My hair is longer.
Oh my god.Is that a hickey on my neck?
No. It can’t be. My pulse speeds even more. Why would I have a love bite?
Glancing down, I see a fresh scar on my arm. I’ve had stitches?—
Holy shit, something is definitely wrong.
I race back to the guest room where I spend several minutes digging through the clothing, smelling the soap, opening drawers.
Please.Let something trigger a memory.
