Oh my God.
The door is locked from the inside.
Pushing back a surge of panic, I make a beeline for the back door. I can hear my dog, Ziggy, barking from the backyard, but I can’t get to him. Because there is a lock on the back door as well.
I slam my palm against the back door in frustration. Are they kidding me? How could they lock me in here? I mean, yes, I was trying to leave without permission, but for God’s sake, I’m an adult. I wasn’t going to do anything dangerous. I was just going to take a walk around the block!
And I still can. There are other ways to get out of this house. They can’t keep me prisoner here.
I return to the front door, my hands shaking. There are two picture windows on either side of the door. I might not be quite as nimble now that I’m thirty-six instead of twenty-nine, but I think I can climb out of a first-story window. I have to try, anyway.
I grab onto the grooves at the bottom of one of the two windows. I yank upwards, but the window doesn’t budge. Not even a centimeter—even when I throw all my weight into it. That’s when I notice there’s a switch at the base of this window as well, keeping it locked. I try to turn it, and that’s when I discover that the window lock has a keyhole on it also.
The blood is rushing in my ears as I go from window to window, confirming that each and every window has an identical keyhole in the lock. It takes me less than five minutes to verify that all the windows and doors on the first floor of this house are locked from the inside.
I’m trapped here.
I stand in the middle of the living room, the panic rising in my chest. I feel almost dizzy. It wasn’t so bad when I was just sitting on the couch and watching television, but now that I know I can’t leave even if I wanted…
This can’t be legal. You can’t keep a person hostage in their own home. I don’t care if I have a brain injury. This isn’t right.
But who can I tell? I’ve been through the entire house and I can’t find a working phone. No wonder Graham refused to give me a phone this morning. And Camila won’t be sympathetic to my plight. He’s paid her to be here.
A noise at the front door gets my attention. I swivel my head in the direction of the door, just as a few letters slide through the mail slot. As the letters clatter onto the welcome mat, my heart leaps. The mailman!
I race to one of the picture windows, just in time to see a middle-aged man wearing a postal worker uniform with a blue baseball cap on his head trudging down our front walk, dragging along his mail cart behind him. It’s not Sid—the mailman who used to deliver our mail when it was me and Harry living here—it’s a new guy I don’t recognize. But that’s okay. He’s a government employee—he has to help me.
The mailman isn’t looking my way, so I bang a fist against the window as hard as I can. He still doesn’t turn. So I bang both fists against the window, trying desperately to get his attention.
The mailman stops. He tilts his head to the side, then he turns around. He spots me standing there and I wave both hands over my head. He waves back, then turns around and continues on his way.
No. No!
I bang my hands against the window again, but the mailman doesn’t turn again. What is wrong with this guy? Can’t he see I’m in distress?
I slam my fists against the window so hard, the frame rattles. “Help!” I scream, knowing it’s unlikely he’ll hear me through the thick window pane. “Help me please!”
But he doesn’t turn. He continues on his way, moving farther and farther away from my house. Wrecking any chance that he’ll be able to save me.
“Help!” I scream one more time. “Please!”
How did this happen to me? The last thing I remember, I was living in this house, engaged to the man I loved, and running a successful business. And now… this. Something has gone horribly wrong. I need to figure out a way to get out of here. Maybe if I make a sign, I can get the attention of someone on the street and—
“Tess?”
Camila is standing by the sofa, staring at me. That’s when I realize tears are streaking down my face and my shoulders are shaking with sobs. I’m crying so hard, I can hardly catch my breath.
“Please help me,” I gasp. “Please… I… I need my life back…”
Camila is quiet for a moment. I can see the pity on her face. I wonder how much she gets paid to babysit me. She’s so beautiful. She could be a movie star if she wanted. Or a pop star. I’m sure my husband notices how beautiful she is. I wonder if that’s how she got the job.