Uncovering You 9: Liberation (14 page)

My hand shakes as I pick it up from the mattress. The story Jeremy told, about his father saying how a gun makes you feel powerful? Totally inaccurate. It’s a weapon, to be sure. But holding it, even imagining that it’s fully loaded, does not make me feel powerful. It makes me feel cowardly. Physically ill.

I’m worried about the violence that Jeremy possesses. But this gun is a thousand times worse. With it, anybody can be a killer. It doesn’t take guts to pull the trigger in a moment of desperation. It takes…
despair
.

I don’t know how guns work, so it takes me a long time to figure out how to open it. It doesn’t help that my nerves are completely frazzled.

Finally, I do figure it out. When I look into the barrel, and see that all the cylinder flutes are empty, the magnitude of that one fired shot hits me with the force of a sledgehammer.

He wasn’t lying. There really was a single bullet. He really did put his life in my hands. He’d left the outcome to chance.

That is so unlike the powerful and controlling man that I know. Either the alcohol had an overpowering effect on him, or the events at dinner really, really affected him.

That night, he became a monster. I still can’t wrap my head around all that transpired. He broke my arm. Jeremy Stonehart broke my arm. Yet, the inferno of hate that roared inside me when I woke up is now nothing more than burning embers.

The incident with the gun did that.

I could have killed him. I
could
have. If I had pulled the trigger like he’d asked, I’d be rid of Jeremy Stonehart forever.

If I hate him, shouldn’t the missed opportunity upset me? I’m never going to get a chance like that again.

But I don’t feel any regret. Not even fucking close. All I feel is a vague, distant sort of relief that I didn’t pull the trigger—especially now, when I know if I had, he’d be dead.

Life and death bring out our most primal feelings.

What lies at my core?

It’s not hatred. No matter how much I want it to be, it’s not.

But it’s not love, either. I cannot love a man who is capable of doing these things to me: of keeping me in the dark, of drugging me time and time again, of breaking my arm in a fit of rage and hitting me to the floor. Of giving me an army tag with the word ‘DOG’ on it. Of binding me by one contract only to release me yet somehow manage to bind me to him again by my own free will.

Jeremy is manipulative. There is no doubt about that. But there is no way he could have predicted or planned how all this has worked out. It takes two to tango, as they say. My role is not to be understated.

I am as responsible for the current state of affairs as he is. There is no planning what happens next. It’s all dynamic. All constantly in flux.

So, at my base? I do not hate Jeremy any more than I hate Stonehart. But I do not love him either. Or, even if I do, I absolutely have to bury those feelings.

No. Not bury. I can’t hide from them. But I
do
have to camouflage them.

I definitely have strong feelings toward Jeremy. So strong, so convoluted, and so messed up that they are beyond all definition.

Well
.

I walk over to the ruined wall. I touch the bit of wood that was blown apart by the gunshot.

Then I close my eyes, shudder, and pour myself a drink. It’s night, but I have no desire to sleep. I want to find Jeremy and talk to him. But, I cannot do that until he’s sobered up.

Alcohol made him erratic and dangerous. Let’s see what it does to me.

***

As it turns out, alcohol just knocks me out and leaves me with a massive hangover.

I groan as I open grainy eyes to the bright morning sun. Damn weather never seems to suit my disposition. When I want it bright and sunny, it’s dark. When I need it drizzling and overcast, it’s spectacular.

Now, to add to all the aches and pains of my body, I’ve got this bloody headache and a craterous hole in my stomach. No food for nearly two days will do that.

I drag myself through the door, into the unfamiliar hall, desperate for hydration. I’ve only been in Rose’s house once before, and—

Oh, Jesus.

My eyes widen as I enter the living room.

The place has been wiped clean.

The furniture is gone. All the rugs and paintings I remember are missing. Was the bedroom I found myself in the only furnished room in the house?

I pick up my pace as I open doors and look in closets. Everything is missing. There’s nothing here.

But…how? Why? Jeremy said that the house is mine, that both Charles and Rose have been dismissed. Either I didn’t take the information at face value or I didn’t expect the expulsion to be so…complete.

Or done so quickly.

As I race from one empty room to another, all I can think of is that Rose and Charles are truly gone. They’ve both been banished.

But, where to? It’s not like Jeremy would just let them walk off his estate and into the wild. They know too much. He wouldn’t risk it.

Would he?
Can
he?

And that thing he screamed out in the throes of his nightmare? That phrase,
Don’t touch me, Rose
? That’s still something I know nothing about.

Well, today—now—is the time to confront Jeremy about it. About all of it. I’m as lost and confused as I’ve ever been. I need clarity. I
deserve
clarity, after everything he’s subjected me to.

There’s nothing to eat or drink in the kitchen. I make do by cupping my hands under the running tap and slurping a handful of water. Then I turn and leave the abandoned house.

The walk to Jeremy’s mansion would be absolutely perfect if it weren’t for my current state of mind. The birds are singing. The sun is warm and bright. All the green that surrounds me makes it feel almost like I’ve emerged into a faraway fantasy land of handsome knights and beautiful princesses.

“Home, sweet home,” I mutter when I first see the mansion through the trees. No matter what happened earlier, I don’t want Rose’s guesthouse. Staying there would feel like a cop-out. I need to be close to Jeremy, not secluded from him elsewhere on his estate. The guesthouse would offer a false sense of security. I cannot allow myself to fall into that trap. If Jeremy is not around, I might start to forget what it is I’m actually doing here. I refuse to live on his grounds, on his property, without actually being close to the man. If I want to truly get away, I would need a place he does not hold influence over. An apartment, or something, in the city.

But Jeremy would never let me do that. He would never simply let me go. Not anymore. Not after the near miss last night.

The guesthouse? It’s not for me. It would be neither here nor there. I would gain nothing making it my permanent place. And I could stand to lose everything.

I walk all the way to the back of the mansion, following the path that offers a magnificent view of the ocean and the cliffs. I end up at the door to the sunroom.

I put my face against the glass and peer inside. There’s the pillar, tall and triumphant in the center of the space. The black and white abstract paintings hang on the walls—even the one I once hurled at the glass panes in a desperate attempt to break free.

Now, I’m on the outside. I put my hand on the handle and push it down. And
now
, I am willingly walking in.

The air is cooler inside. Fresh and crisp courtesy of the AC
.

The door closes behind me. I walk to the pillar and trace my fingers over the smooth marble.

“Hello, old friend,” I say softly. “A lot has changed since I saw you last.”

I make a wide circle around my former perimeter. I still remember the thin string that I found wrapped around my ankle. The tray of food that Stonehart used to try to break my will. I remember the horrible hunger that defined my existence. I remember vomiting on the floor. I remember my soiled clothes, and how skinny and wretched I felt when Rose first showed up to wash me.

I force myself to think of all that. To focus on the misery that Stonehart made me feel in his twisted quest for revenge. I do it to strengthen myself, and my resolve, for when I face him today.

I enter the closet. It’s empty. I get an uncanny reminder of the guesthouse when I look at the vacant racks. I shiver, disliking the vibe, and turn away.

I visit the bathroom. There’s the tub where Rose once washed my hair. I look up at the ceiling. And there are the tiles hiding the cameras embedded above the tub.

I look at the mirror. It’s so strange to see my arm in a sling. I don’t know how long it will take for the bone to heal. Speaking of, who was it that put my arm in a cast? Jeremy? Rose? Somebody else—a nurse or doctor who had been called in? What did they make of me when they saw me out cold and with the marks on my face? The signs of abuse were obvious…

And yet, just like there are crooked politicians, and crooked businessmen, there are crooked doctors and nurses and medical staff. Jeremy told me how easy it is to pay someone off. If a doctor saw me, I have no doubt he was persuaded into silence by Jeremy’s coin.

Whatever. That is the least of my concerns. There are much more pertinent questions on my mind: Charles’ behavior, Rose’s role in things, Hugh’s involvement.

I walk down the long brick hallway that led me to my first taste of freedom. I brush my fingers over the rough red walls. Whatever I expected when I got to leave the sunroom for the first time—wherever I thought I would be this far into the future—is definitely not here. Nobody could have predicted the way things have turned out. Hell, I was supposed to be Stonehart’s “personal assistant” for another four-and-a-half years.

And now? Now I’m walking to find the man who nearly turned me into a murderer last night.

I stop before reaching the final door. What day is it? Sunday? Or Monday?

If it’s the latter, Jeremy would be at work. Or rather, he’s supposed to be at work. Who knows if he would arrive at the Stonehart Industries building the morning after he’s gotten himself absolutely wasted?

I hope, for my own sake, that he’s home. I need to talk to him. Desperately. It has to be done face-to-face. A phone call would not do.

Speaking of, where
is
my cell phone? I don’t remember when I used it last. Or where I might have left it.

I’m stalling. I
want
to find Jeremy, but the prospect of facing him after all that’s transpired is…intimidating. The confrontation will be uncomfortable—to say the least. How do you face someone who forced you to press a gun to his head?

Is Jeremy stable? The behavior he displayed last night is clear evidence to the contrary. And I already know of his propensity to shift demeanors on a dime. Before, I thought he did it consciously. In a way, he became the man he needed to be to suit his mood.

Was alcohol the catalyst that made him so unlike himself last night? He was neither Jeremy nor Stonehart—not based on my previous understanding of the two. He was just…someone else. Someone else entirely.

It could have been the liquor. He looked like he’d barely slept. Like he’d been through the wringer and only just managed to survive.

Alcohol was a contributing factor. But it does not tell the full story. Something kept him awake. Something made him reach for the bottle.

I get a flashback to the night he’d removed the collar in the Caribbean. He was in a similar state then. Distressed. He’d admitted it was because of his concern for me.

Could that same concern have propelled him into looking like he did when I awoke last night?

But damn him, where was that concern when he backhanded me at dinner? Where was that concern when he broke my arm?

I can’t let it affect me. I won’t. I will not be influenced by his remorse. No matter how much of it he might harbor, it will never justify what he did.

So, stability? I’m not sure of that anymore. Stonehart was unpredictable. But he was always—always!—in control.

A Jeremy who does not have control frightens me more than anything.

I take a deep breath, dragged my feet long enough, and open the final door.

The lobby is as spotless and sterile as ever.

“Hello?” I call out. My footsteps echo against the marble floor. “Jeremy, are you here?”

I wait for an answer, even though I expect none. If he
is
here, he’d probably be in his office. That one room seems to be the point where we always find each other at times of duress.

I go to the dining room first, though. I want to see if there is any evidence of that ill-fated dinner.

Nope. The room is perfect. In fact, the bright morning sunshine seems to make a mockery of everything that happened the last time I was here.

I walk through the kitchen, pausing before the pantry-that-is-not-a-pantry. The one with all the monitors inside.

I hesitate. Do I want to go inside? I’d turned the cameras off a long time ago. But maybe there is a certain safety afforded in having them back on. Could they have been enough of a deterrent to prevent Jeremy from transforming into a merciless monster at dinner? Could the threat of footage leaking have kept me safe?

Maybe. Ironic as it is, I would feel better confronting Jeremy Stonehart today knowing that our interaction was being recorded. I don’t want the world to see what he did to me when I was his prisoner. But now that I’m free, and our roles have shifted, I think I can stand to send footage of that out…should the need arise.

So I walk into the pantry and punch in my access code. I feel a bit of anxiety in the second it takes for the system to accept my password—has Stonehart taken back control?—but when it goes through I see, for the first time, that Jeremy was actually truthful.

The cameras are all off, as I had left them. A few quick clicks of the mouse and they are back on. Images of the house fill the screen. I scan them one by one. Each room is empty. Every hallway, every bathroom has been abandoned.