I walk to the French windows that had presented such hope to me when I’d tried to escape, and look out. There’s a large paved terrace with a swimming pool, and suddenly, I experience a weird sense of déjà vu. I know this terrace, this pool.
My heart racing, I pull open the sliding doors and step out, barely registering the fresh air, the warmth of the early morning sun on my skin. I see the distinctive gray-and-yellow-striped sun loungers, the bar at the end of the pool, the stools tucked neatly under the counter, smell the tang of the sea in the air. Stunned, I sink onto one of the sun loungers. This is the house in Haven Cliffs where Ned and I had lunch with Lukas. If I’d needed more proof that Lukas was behind our kidnapping, this was it.
Aware of time marching on, I go back to the kitchen and into the hallway. Opposite the kitchen is a door; I open it and find a dining room. Farther down the hallway, on the left, are the double doors I passed when I tried to escape. Behind them is what I’d imagined, a huge sitting room. On a low rectangular table inlaid with onyx, there are magazines and books; books that belong to me, taken from my bedroom at Ned’s. One of my wraps is draped casually over the arm of the nearby sofa. There’s also a mug, a stain of coffee still visible in the bottom.
Following the instructions, I familiarize myself with the rest of the house. Opposite the sitting room is a wide staircase to the upper floor. I ignore it and move along the corridor and find a wood-paneled library with a study tucked behind it. And opposite the library, next to the sitting room, the room where I was held.
I open the door, stand in the doorway. The board has been removed from the window, the room is no longer in darkness. It’s nothing like I had imagined. In my mind, it was shabby, its walls yellowed with age. But the walls are smooth, painted in the palest of greens, an echo of the foliage I can see through the window.
In front of the window there’s a mahogany writing desk. An ornate lamp stands on it. In the corner where my mattress was, there’s a comfortable armchair, upholstered in dark green, and a low wooden table with another lamp. A small bookshelf, filled with neat rows of books, stands against the opposite wall. It seems impossible that this beautiful study was my home for four weeks—two weeks, I correct myself. My mind is tripping on how they did it, why they did it. But I don’t have time, not now.
I cross to the little bathroom. With the light streaming in from the window in the other room I don’t need to go all the way in and lock the door to be able to see that the cake of soap is gone. I bend to look in the cupboard; it’s bare. I check the wall behind the door; the scratches I made and my calculations on the door itself have been sanded away. There’s nothing, no trace of me at all.
Except. Back in the main room, I walk over to the wall where I smeared my blood. It’s still there. It did happen. It was real. There’s still a trace of me in this room.
I return to the hallway. The door to the basement is farther along but I can’t face going down to see the room where Ned was held.
I hurry upstairs, find the main bedroom. The bed is unmade, two suitcases, half-packed, lie open by the wardrobe. Clothes—some belonging to me, some to Ned, I presume—are draped on one of the chairs that sit in the bow window. I see my handbag, which I haven’t seen since I arrived at Ned’s house after Vegas, on the floor by the left-hand side of the bed, and on the bedside table on the right-hand side, a phone which I recognize as Ned’s. The door to the en suite is tantalizingly open. More than anything, I crave a shower. But first, I lie down on the left-hand side of the bed, move my body around in the sheets, then get up.
The bathroom is damp and steamy, it must be where Ned had his shower. I touch the navy towel draped casually over the rack; it’s still damp. There’s a pile of clean towels. I throw one over the shower door, strip off my pajamas. Stepping into the shower, I turn on the tap and position myself under the cascade of steaming water. I let it gush over me, into my ears, my mouth, down my body onto my feet, then reaching to the array of bottles aligned along a shelf, I shampoo my hair, soap my body, and scrub my skin until it zings. I don’t want to get out, I want to stay under the water forever. But after a few more minutes I reluctantly turn off the tap, wrap the towel around myself, and step out of the shower. Walking over to the mirror, I peer at my face. It looks thinner, paler, and there are dark smudges under my eyes. But I still look like me.
Next to the bathroom, I find a walk-in dressing room, one side with the amount of clothes—my clothes—that I would have brought for a two-week vacation, the other side with Ned’s. I choose a pair of white shorts and a T-shirt, push my feet into a pair of my sneakers, find my brush in the bathroom, detangle my wet hair.