Page 35 of Total Exposure

I stand at the bottom of the second staircase and look up into darkness.

Is he up there?

Is he waiting for me?

What’s that noise?

I crane my neck forward, head tilted, desperate to hear more.

Birds…

I climb without thinking. This is where I’m supposed to go. And even though I have this tiny, niggling thought that this whole fucking setup is dangerous and stupid, I don’t care.

I just want to hear the song again.

At the top there’s a small landing. The darkness is complete. So much so, I have to inch forward and feel for the doors I know must be there.

I find a knob, then a second, and realize they are double doors, just like the ones downstairs.

I turn both knobs and push them inward and find a softly lit bedroom.

The master.

There’s only one small light, and it barely counts as a light and it’s shaped like a quarter moon. More like one of those decorative things you place in a baby’s nursery to give off the glow of comfort.

But it’s just enough for me to see everything.

The bed has been turned down. The comforter is either white, or pale yellow or cream. Can’t really tell. But it looks soft and inviting

Did he do this for me? Turn the bed down?

Or was that Lucinda? Was she in here? Did the watcher know she came and got the room ready, so he told me to come upstairs?

Did Lucinda tell him to write that note?

I deflate at that thought. It’s an unexpected sigh of sadness to even think about it.

I don’t want her to be responsible for this turn of events. I want it to be him. His easy commands. His firm expectations. And not her just playing mother with me.

I don’t need another mother. One was more than enough, thank you.

There’s a camera in the corner, facing the bed. In fact, I count six total. Each of the four corners, one on the fireplace mantel at the foot of the bed, and one directly above the bed in the form of a reflective black bulb among white ones nestled in the intricate chandelier.

Get in bed, cover up, and go to sleep.

I walk towards it, curious about the room and the dark doorway that must lead to the en suite bathroom, but wanting to follow directions, I push that curiosity aside and kick off my shoes.

The rug underneath my feet is soft sheepskin. My toes wriggle, eager to feel it on my bare skin, so I pull off my socks and give them that luxury.

I feel like I suddenly have a lot to say. A million questions. What song is this? What kind of bird? It sounds familiar. Like something in a dream.

Which is probably why you were dreaming poetry, Evangeline.

Right. Because that’s all I do these days—dream.

I kneel on the bed, feeling it give with my weight, and then crawl in, fully clothed minus socks.

The sheets are cold, but they warm quickly. I pull the heavy comforter over me and bury my face in the pillow.