“MRS. FRASIER? MRS. Frasier, wake up.”
A man’s voice calling me. Paul? Why would he call me Mrs. Frasier? Is that one of our weird married couple kinks? He calls me “Mrs. Frasier,” and I call him “The Commodore” or something equally pervy? Too early in the morning for roleplay.
And too cold. Some of the blankets must’ve slid off during the night, but I’m too tired to retrieve them.
I ignore Paul, ignore the cold, and drift back down to sleep.
“Mrs. Frasier.” Now he’s jiggling my arm.
“What?” I open my eyes—
And see I’m not in my bedroom. Not at all.
I’m lying on a worn plywood floor smelling of wax and linseed oil. Above me are shelves stacked with paint cans, brushes, and buckets that stretch all the way to the ceiling. Chains trailing from giant spools above dangle around me like Spanish moss.
The hardware store.
How? Is this real? A reasonable question—I’ve been burned before. I reach out to touch a chain and see the balisong knife gripped tight in my left hand.
Blade out. Locked in position. Ready.
How is it that I am holding this thing, in this place?
What the hell is going on?
“Why don’t I put that somewhere safe.” The man’s voice again, gentle and warm. I look up—and find the store’s owner, Arthur Morris, crouched by my shoulder. He reaches over, nice and slow. Takes the balisong from my hand and places it on the nearby counter.
“H-h-how did I get here?” No need to fake the stutter-slur. Panic, my recently fried brain, and the early hour have all taken care of that.
I sit up and see I’m still in my nightgown—but it’s now a muddy mess, the bottom six inches solid wet brown like I’ve been out slopping hogs.
And there’s blood on the right sleeve, near the wrist.
I yank the cuff up, scared of what I’ll find—my artery reopened? Its contents rapidly departing me? But thankfully that’s not the case. The scar’s intact. The blood’s coming from a small cut, higher on my forearm.
How did I get that? Is it a defensive wound? Did someone come after me, and I defended myself with the balisong? But how did I get the balisong? And how did I get here?
The last thing I remember was turning out my light. Then nothing till I woke miles away in a hardware store. Not much to go on.
Looking down, I see my socks are mud-soaked, burrs and twigs buried deep in the thick knit. Can feel something cold and claylike squishing between my toes. I must’ve escaped my attacker by running through mud. A lot of mud. But what happened to that attacker? Are they still nearby? I look around the store, searching for signs of another. But there’s only a single set of muddy footprints.
“Is someone else here?” I ask Arthur, more slowly and clearly this time.
“Who would that be, dear?”
Time to find out for myself. I hold on to a shelf, start to pull myself up. “Let me help you,” Arthur says, and takes my arm. As I stand up I feel something heavy hanging from my shoulder, weighing me down—a long duffel bag I must’ve been lying against. Arthur lifts it off my shoulder, and we both spy the butt of a rifle peeking out from it.
He puts the bag on the counter, and I open it. Not one but two .22-caliber rifles and a machete inside, price tags still on them. In the bottom are several cartons of ammo.
Arthur quietly pushes the bag down the counter, out of reach, and two big shards of glass are revealed in its wake. Arthur carefully tosses them in the trash. Their source is the nearby pocketknife display case. The top’s been shattered. Glass all over the floor and counter.
Then I see the nearby gun case’s wire mesh door is ajar, a bent hairpin still jammed in its lock. Someone’s picked it.
That someone was not—could not—have been me.
“I didn’t do this!” I say.
“It’s okay, Mrs. Frasier. Nothing at all to feel bad about. I’ve called your husband, and he should be here any minute.”
Paul. So he knows I’m here. Like this.
Arthur pulls out two stools. “Let’s you and I have a seat,” he says, and I sit down. “We’ll wait for him together, split this Hershey bar I’ve kept a secret from Mrs. Morris.” He winks and smiles, produces a chocolate bar from a drawer.
It’s a nice offer, but something’s happened to me that chocolate won’t fix. Someone did this and maybe they’re still nearby. Maybe right outside. I look down the aisle to the front of the store. The sun’s up. I’m guessing it’s about 7:00 a.m. I need to get out there. Find whoever’s responsible.
I start to stand—but Arthur lays his hand gently on my arm. “He wants you to wait here for him, dear.”
Paul wants me to wait. Yes, that’s a good idea. I’ll need his help to figure this out, get my hands on whoever messed with me. So I sit back down, and the old man smiles, tears open the wrapper, and breaks me off a piece.
We’re finishing up the last of the chocolate when the bell on the store’s front door rings, and Paul comes running down the aisle toward us, breathless. “Thank God,” he shouts as he wraps his arms around me and squeezes tight.
“Someone took me from the house and brought me here. I think we fought. We need to—”
“It’ll be okay, Dee. Everything’s gonna be just fine,” he says quietly to me. “We’ll talk about it in the car.”
“But they could still be outside—”
“There’s no one out there after you.”
“But—”
“We’ll discuss this later when we’re both calmer. Okay?” he asks, nodding.
I nod back—and immediately feel more relaxed. More secure. Breath lengthening, nerves and muscles backing down on their terror alert levels, heart slowing, like I’ve taken a fat bong hit. I hadn’t been aware of it before, this neural shortcut the protocol has forged in me: a connection between agreement and this buzzy feeling of ease.
Paul puts his wool jacket around my shoulders, and I let its musky warmth enfold me. He turns to the old man. “Thank you, Arthur. I’ve been out looking for hours. Ever since we realized she was gone.”
“No trouble at all. Dorothy and I have been enjoying some early-morning chocolate.”
Paul smiles, but it’s a weak smile. He’s seen the damage, spotted the gun bag and the balisong on the counter. “Can I speak with you a minute?” he asks the shopkeeper.
“Sure thing, Paul.”
“Dorothy, stay right here, okay?” Paul says, nodding his head.
I echo the nod and my breath lengthens further, my fist begins to unclench.
Arthur follows Paul just out of earshot. They glance over at me occasionally as they talk. Then I see Paul pull some cash from his wallet. Jesus, he’s trying to pay Arthur for the damage he thinks I caused—which I, for sure, did not.
But I also know that I should wait till we’re alone in the car to convince him.
Arthur’s patting Paul’s shoulder as the two come back to me. “You sure I can’t help you with the cleanup, Arthur?” Paul asks.
“Won’t hear of it. You go take your pretty bride home,” Arthur says, then turns to me, smiling. “Goodbye, Dorothy. It was a pleasure dining with you.”
The man’s gone out of his way to be kind to a woman he believes trashed his store—spelling out just how little personal responsibility he thinks I bear for what he’s certain I’ve done.
Paul takes my hand, and as we walk down the aisle, the mud squishes from my socks, trailing more footprints.
When we get near the open front door, I notice the pane nearest the knob has been shattered, glass all over the floor. A small streak of blood runs down one jagged piece still attached to the doorframe.
I scope out the street for any sign of my attacker. “Dee, careful,” Paul warns, and lifts me in the air, deposits me on the other side of the broken glass. As a couple of men pass by us on the sidewalk, their curious eyes drift down to my muddy nightgown and socks.
I feel on display. Misunderstood. In danger.