Genesis - Keith R. A. DeCandido [37]
Next to the window was a writing desk. A pad of paper sat in the center of it, with the words today all your dreams come true written in ink on the top sheet.
She frowned. What the hell was that supposed to mean?
There was an ornately designed pen next to the pad. She grabbed it with her left hand—thus confirming that she was left-handed, for what that was worth—and started writing.
By the time she got as far as today all your she stopped. The handwriting wasn't remotely similar.
Did she share that bed with someone else? Or did the person who was responsible for rendering her unconscious in the shower leave this note?
It didn't make sense.
But then, nothing made sense right now.
She walked over to the dresser drawer, grateful that she knew what that, at least, was.
The two top drawers revealed linens and underwear, all neatly folded and arranged and lending more credence to her earlier neat-freak hypothesis.
When she opened the third drawer, she gasped.
A sheet of glass sat on top of this drawer, blocking simple access to its contents. Etched in the glass was a numeric pad over two words: locked and unlocked. The former word was blinking in green.
That wasn't nearly so scary as what was under the glass.
Guns.
Several of them.
And, for some reason, she knew for sure that these were among the finest and most up-to-date weaponry that money could buy.
Part of her wished she could remember the key code to unlock the glass barrier, assuming she ever did know it. Another part of her was grateful that she didn't.
What did this say about her? Were the guns hers? The person she shared the house with? Both? Did they belong to whoever wrote the note? Maybe she was the intruder and the person who wrote the note owned the guns.
Too many questions. Not enough answers.
Bathrobe! That's what the white silk or satin thing was called.
She chuckled to herself. That was one answer, anyhow.
But it didn't help her with the guns. Or the cut on her shoulder. Or the identity of—well, anyone.
Now that she knew what it was, she also realized she might as well take the bathrobe off. She had found underwear, as well as the dress. Something weird was going on, and while the dress didn't look one hundred percent practical, it was more so than the bathrobe.
The dress—which had an odd cut, extending down practically to her ankle on the outer part of her right leg, but cut in a U-shape, leaving her legs free. On the left side, the dress only came to her hips. It gave her a sexy look that also permitted her legs a certain freedom of movement.
After retreiving a pair of biker shorts—why had she known that was what they were called?—and a pair of thigh-high boots, she put the dress on over them. There was something she thought might be the right thing to wear over her chest, but she couldn't remember what the damn thing would be called. Anyhow, the dress had small straps that didn't seem conducive to wearing anything under it at the chest area.
Somehow, putting on normal clothes made her feel better.
She stepped out into the next room. It seemed to be—well, she didn't know what it seemed to be. It was another big room, full of old furniture, wood paneling, and high ceilings. At the (very) far end of the room was a statue of a woman with wings, covered in plastic. Looking at it, she thought it should have been outside, for some reason.
A framed picture caught her eye on one of the wooden tables.
Picking it up, she saw that it portrayed her and a man, both dressed in funny outfits.
In a flash, she realized not only what the picture represented, but why she wore a gold ring.
She and the man in the picture were married.
This, in turn, raised more questions. Was the money that paid for this mansion hers or his? Or both? Did he write the note on the table? Did he attack her in the shower? Where