Page 17 of Savage Lies

How convenient that every person who might know the real me has disappeared or become unavailable.

“What about my medical records? School transcripts? Anything that might help me understand who I was before the accident?”

“Lost in a fire at the records office last month.”

I turn to face him, no longer trying to hide my suspicion. “That’s quite a coincidence.”

“Moscow is an old city. Fires happen.”

“Dmitri, do you expect me to believe that every piece of evidence about my past life has been mysteriously destroyed or made inaccessible?”

“I expect you to trust your husband to help you through recovery,” he says, slipping his hands into his pockets.

“And if I don’t? If I want to investigate my past independently?”

Something cold enters his eyes, and I get a glimpse of the man who makes waiters nervous and conducts threatening phone calls.

“Where would you go?” he asks. “What life would you return to? You have no family, no friends, and no job to go back to. I’m all you have left, kotyonok. The only person who cares whether you recover or disappear.”

The words are delivered gently, but they carry the unmistakable undercurrent of a threat. He’s right, of course. Without my memories, I have no identity outside of what he’s given me. No way to verify his story or seek help from anyone who might contradict his version of events.

“That’s convenient for you,” I observe.

“It’s reality. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but that doesn’t make it less true.”

I study his face for cracks in his composure, but he gives nothing away. Either he’s telling the truth, or he’s a masterful liar.

“I’m tired,” I finally breathe out. “I think I’ll go to bed.”

“Good idea. Tomorrow, maybe we can visit a spa. Anything to help you feel more comfortable.”

He’s being kind again, the threatening edge replaced, but I no longer trust the rapid shifts in his demeanor.

I retreat to the bedroom and close the door behind me, wishing it had a lock. Something about our conversation has left me unsettled, like I’ve stumbled onto information I shouldn’t have.

A few hours later, I can’t sleep, and Dmitri has disappeared, so I decide to explore the penthouse some more. Maybe I’llfind something that contradicts his story or triggers a genuine memory instead of another violent flashback that makes no sense.

I start with the home office, but the desk is locked. I don’t want to risk noise if he’s still somewhere in the penthouse. The bookcases contain mostly business texts and classic literature, nothing personal or revealing.

The kitchen yields nothing more interesting than expensive ingredients and top-shelf alcohol.

But when I open the hall closet looking for blankets, something stops me cold.

Hidden behind winter coats, secured in a panel that looks like part of the wall, is a collection of weapons that would make a military unit jealous. Handguns, knives, and specialized surveillance equipment.

No art curator needs an arsenal.

More disturbing is that the sight of them doesn’t shock me the way it should. Instead, I find myself evaluating their quality and condition, automatically checking which ones are loaded and which need maintenance.

How do I know these things?

I close the panel carefully, making sure everything looks as I found it, but my hands are shaking as I back away from the closet.

Whatever Dmitri has told me about my past, and whatever identity he’s constructed for me doesn’t explain why the sight of enough weapons to outfit a small army feels familiar instead of terrifying.

Something is very wrong here.

I’m starting to think the problem isn’t my missing memory.