Wired Read Online Free Page B

really the type who waited to be asked, but if he had put this here, when would he have had time to do it . . . and why the hell would he?
    I sat up and pulled the shoe box toward me, turning it around to look at the size.
My shoe size, all right. My shoes
.
    My gun?
    I looked over my shoulder as if I were being really naughty and didn’t want to get caught and then picked up the gun, weighing it in one hand. With the other, I plucked a couple of bullets from their tissue-paper nest. The equipment was surprisingly heavy, and there was no question in my mind that all of it was real. Very carefully, I put the gun and ammunition away, fit the lid back on the box, stood up, backed out of the closet, and closed the door.
    Denial. It’s an important emotional stage often overlooked in favor of the others involved in traumatic situations, such as anger and acceptance. But I focused on denial as I shook my damp hair out, grabbed the jacket off the hanger and the messengerbag off the chair next to my bed, and headed for the bathroom to put on a quick face.
    But I couldn’t find my makeup bag. It wasn’t next to the sink.
    I pulled open the top drawer under the sink and gawked at the contents. It was packed with unopened boxes of makeup, the cellophane not even sliced open. I closed the drawer very carefully, very quietly, as if doing so would contribute in some way to the maintenance of my fraying sanity. I hesitated for a moment, then opened the second drawer. More boxes of face powder, tubes of lipstick, mascara, containers of eyeshadow. All sealed, unopened, unused.
    I pulled the third drawer open without any ceremony. Skin care. At least I was organized, even if I couldn’t remember having spent the hundreds and hundreds of dollars it would have cost to buy all of this.
    Almost defiantly, I opened the top drawer again, grabbed a mascara and a lip gloss, and ripped open the packages. I stuffed the lip gloss into my pocket, applied the mascara, and gave up on the rest in favor of breakfast.
    Still working hard on denial, I wandered down to the kitchen. I looked around and breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing I didn’t recognize, though I still had the feeling I’d had upstairs—like I was having culture shock after a long stint overseas. Maybe it was me who was the foreigner.
    I opened the fridge and scanned the sparse shelves. Eggs, milk, juice, carrots. Well, what else did a person really need? My hand froze on the milk carton; I remembered that I’d been on the way to the 7-Elevenwhen things started to get strange. I must have needed something.
    In the chaos of the prior night, I’d never actually made it to the store and, accordingly, never purchased what I’d set out to buy in the first place. Which shouldn’t have mattered, really, given the circumstances, except that when I tried to think about last night, there were . . . holes. Holes in my memory. What was I craving so badly at two a.m. that just couldn’t wait? I stared into the emptiness of the fridge and tried to focus, but it was the strangest sensation, this mental hole.
    A magnet slipped off the door and pinged on the ground, followed by a shower of menus. With a sigh, I crouched down and started picking them back up. Sweeping my hand under the edge of the refrigerator, I pulled out a plastic packet of twigs or something. I used to find the same kind of stuff all the time, various bits of Kitty’s New Age paraphernalia, flotsam and jetsam from her latest woo-woo obsession. I hated finding the stuff. It reminded me that we hadn’t spoken since the day she left for Europe. I guess I was embarrassed about not making anything of the big plans I’d once confided to her. Though I hadn’t tried to get back in touch, it nonetheless bothered me intensely that she hadn’t either. I tossed the packet on the kitchen counter and finished collecting the fallen menus.
    Holding a