In Medias Res Read Online Free Page A

Three

    The cab driver dropped me off in front of the house on United Street but didn’t see me in. He deposited my bags on the porch and left to pick up another fare. It was just as well. I didn’t want him to see me fumbling with the keys as I tried to find the one that fit the front door. He might have had a few questions for me. Questions I wouldn’t be able to answer.
    The front door sported two locks, the ring in my hand four keys. I tried each key in succession until I found the right combination that fit the locks. The tedious process tested what little patience I had left.
    A four-digit number was taped to the back of the key that turned the deadbolt. I quickly found out why. The security alarm screeched to life when I opened the door. The alarm code had probably been ingrained in my memory less than twelve hours before. It, like everything else, was lost in the fog that had enveloped my brain.
    Unprepared for a confrontation with the police, I tried to stem the tide of rising panic within me. I turned to the keys clutched tightly in my fist. I punched the handwritten numbers into the control panel next to the front door and prayed they were the right ones.
    My prayers were answered. The alarm immediately fell silent.
    I pulled my bags inside the house, then closed and locked the door. I stripped off my shirts—both of them—and dropped them on the floor. Then I kicked off my boots. My wool socks were plastered to my skin. I peeled those off, too. As I walked around, I could trace each step I made via the prints my sweaty feet left on the dark wood floor.
    The temperature controls were in a hallway off from the small kitchen. The thermostat was set to an energy-conserving eighty degrees. I cranked it down to a more comfortable seventy-two.
    With one mission accomplished, I put my hands on my hips and wondered what to do next.
    “I’m here,” I said to the empty living room. “Now what?”
    I took a quick tour of the house to acclimate myself to my surroundings.
    The living room was spacious and open, filled with bright floral-print furniture. The massive entertainment center was the focal point of the room. Flanked by built-in bookcases that displayed books on one side and movies on the other, it housed a wide-screen TV, a CD player, and a home theater system. Strategically placed speakers throughout the room gave the term “surround sound” new meaning.
    The kitchen contained the bare essentials—sink, refrigerator, stove, dishwasher. The exterior of the refrigerator was decorated with magnets collected from the string of islands that made up the Florida Keys—Elliott Key, Key Largo, Tavernier, Islamorada, Indian Key, Long Key, Marathon, Bahia Honda, Big Pine Key, and, finally, Key West. Each magnet was accompanied by photos that documented the purchase. There were at least a dozen pictures of me or Jack and sometimes both of us, grinning from ear to ear as we exited a convenience store, gas station, or gift shop with another find in our hands.
    Even though the face in half the pictures was mine—and I’d been behind the camera for the other half—I felt like I was eavesdropping on someone else’s life. Like I was invading my own privacy. I’d had the same feeling on the plane when I’d read the day planner. I tried to convince myself that it was a necessary evil. A part of the process I’d have to undergo in order to reclaim who I was.
    Unlike the crowded front, the interior of the refrigerator was empty, which meant I would have to find a grocery store sooner or later. I opted for later.
    I headed down the hall again. A door on the left led to the guest bedroom, which was decorated in a mélange of tropical colors that were as loud as my cab driver’s shirt had been. The walls were the color of orange sherbet, the bedding was lime green, and the throw rugs were aquamarine. I didn’t know whether to cover my eyes or my ears.
    The bathroom, in contrast, was muted, with a pervasive nautical theme