3. Remember When

I am at the end of a long, dark corridor. Every step I take makes it stretch further into infinity, every time I blink the lights dim a little more. The darkness echoes within each noise, growing louder and louder by the moment. Maybe if I stand completely still, everything will stay as it is. As soon as I stop breathing, staying still as I can, a sense of terror overwhelms me and nearly knocks me off my feet. Behind me. Behind me... I know if I turn around I will see him there. I know if I turn around I will die.

I am woken from my dream from the sound of exploding glass, and I raise my head from the desk just in time to contemplate the last shards as they fall from the window frame and to the floor. Two things take a moment to work themselves into my brain, one--that I'd fallen asleep at my desk, and two--that someone has thrown something through my window.

I step carefully around the desk and look at the floor of my office, now covered with shattered glass. A brick lies in the middle of the debris, and tied around the brick is a piece of crumpled paper, just like every bad caper picture you ever saw. I pick up the brick gingerly and untie the string, managing to slice only a few glass slivers into my skin in the process. I spread the note out on my desk. The handwriting is barely legible; it looks a bit like children's scribbles against the cheap, crumpled paper.

"He dies next."

My heart seizes up in my chest and I sit abruptly back down in my chair, willing my head to stop spinning. What does this mean? Perhaps if I had my entire memory available for perusal I'd know what this meant, but as it stands I'm completely stumped. Getting death threats only a week after obtaining a husband, a house, and an unborn child is understandably a bit much to handle. But the note doesn't mention me... Are they talking about...Rick? Jonathan? Or someone else entirely? The inability to make sense of it all is more frustrating than anything I've ever encountered...

And terrifying. Unless I went through some traumatic event in the past few months that I don't remember, I can honestly say I've never been more scared in my life.

I open the kitchen door, trying to make as little noise as possible, though this is entirely unsuccessful. As I flick on the light switch, Rick strides into the kitchen, looking mad as hell, but...there's concern etched on his face, too. I guess that's...

"Evelyn, where the hell have you been?" he hollers. "You know the museum isn't safe to--"

"I was talking to the police. They were asking questions about...you know, that night."

The excuse tumbles out of my mouth before I have time to think. No way I'm telling him about that note, not when he's being so ornery.

He sinks into a kitchen chair, and I notice not for the first time how tired he looks. "What did you tell them?"

"The same thing I've told you, Jonathan, and everybody else. I don't remember anything. If I did, don't you think I would have told someone?"

He shrugs. "Just covering the bases. Hey, there's a lunar eclipse next week, did you know? I thought we could drive to that park, where the--"

"I don't like to stay up that late."

"Okay. So..." he says. I can see him searching for a topic. When does this stop being hard? Was it ever this hard for us? "Lots to do at the museum lately?"

"I suppose. I don't know anything about the new exhibit, it makes it rather difficult."

"They must be keeping you busy. I feel like I haven't seen you at all this past week."

The words come out of my mouth without even meaning to. "That would follow. I feel like I haven't seen you my entire life."

I can't help looking at him, even though I know it will break my heart. He looks like he's been slapped in the face. He stands up and exits the kitchen. At the entrance, though, he turns and speaks again, though he doesn't look at me. "The Putnams are expecting us at seven. Dorothy's birthday, you know. If you don't want to go, I can--"

"No, no, I'll go." I have to get out of this house, away from anything and everything, or I may just go mad. Maybe I can lose Rick at the party and just spend a few minutes being Evelyn, away from his shadow.

Away from this horrible feeling I have...that he's in danger.

I cannot imagine how a week has passed already. The days all blend together until I'm no longer sure which one is which. Mostly I've been spending as much time as possible at the Museum, although I've noticed that various staff members have been following me around extra-closely. My husband's orders, I'm sure, for they make up bad excuses every time I ask them about it.

I pull a dress out of my closet at random and then nearly drop it. It's black and velvety, but the flapper-esque style is still loose-fitting enough to hide my condition. The neck swoops quite low, in fact, and the skirt flares and does a little twirly thing. I can't believe I bought this dress. My entire wardrobe used to consist of khaki and white blouses.

Once on, however....maybe it doesn't look so bad. It seems that I look good in black.

He doesn't mention the dress. That's rather rude.

Wait. Why do I care if he likes the dress? No, he doesn't even have to like it, just...notice it. Maybe he's seen it a dozen times before. Maybe he doesn't think I look good in the dress. But I do. So why doesn't he think so? Maybe it makes me look fat. I probably look horribly pregnant and unattractive. But I don't care if he thinks I'm attractive. Why would I?

Maybe I should go change.

He's just pulled out of the driveway when I shriek, "Wait!"

Rick slams on the brakes. "What?? What??"

"I have to go change."

He looks at me like I'm insane. Probably I am. "Why do you have to change? You bought that dress just for this party."

"Oh... Sorry. I did?"

Rick starts the car again and waits until we're all the way down the street before answering. "No. I just didn't want to have to wait while you rummaged through the closet for twenty minutes before deciding to wear exactly what you've got on now."

I'm sure my mouth falls open, and I make no attempt to hide my shock. "You're absolutely impossible!"

"You never minded before," he mutters under his breath, but I hear him plain as day.

I choose to ignore the comment, however, in an attempt to diffuse the hostility that is rapidly building within the small confines of the car. "So...when did I get this dress?"

He takes a moment to answer. "Paris, I think."

"Paris?"

"On the way back to Egypt after...the wedding."

"We got married in England?"

"Yep. You insisted."

I shouldn't ask, but despite myself I really do want to know. "Where did we meet?"

"Evy, I don't want to fight--"

"I'm not fighting, I'm just asking questions!"

He sighs again, loudly, to show his irritation. "Fine. All right. Cairo Prison."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Cairo Prison. Where we met. Short version is, Jonathan stole something from me at a bar, I got arrested soon after, and that is where you found me some weeks later." He pronounces each word crisply, slowly, as if he almost relishes annoying me. "Cairo Prison."

Something about this almost seems...familiar... I put on the shocked face anyway. "You have got to be joking."

"I am so past joking, it's not even funny."

"Well, what were you there for?"

He doesn't answer me, just shakes his head vehemently "no" and parks on a street filled with cars. I can hear faint laughter and the tinkle of music from a well-lit house up the road. "Now look," he says, turning to me. "You may not know some of these people. I myself only met most of them a few months ago. We haven't told anyone about...you know..." He gestures in the direction of my head like I'm a mental patient. "What happened, at the museum. Just stay close and follow my lead."

"I think I can handle myself, Mr. O'Connell."

He had been opening his car door but shuts it and turns to me again. "That's another thing. Don't call me Mr. O'Connell. My name is Rick." He gets out now, and it occurs to me that almost our entire relationship thus far has consisted of him storming out of cars. But my door opens, I see a hand. "Are you coming?" he asks.

"What if someone asks me a question I can't answer?"

"You're smart. Avoid answering. Make something up. Lie. Faint. Whatever."

I sit in the car for a second more, gathering strength. "Whose birthday is it?"

"Dorothy Putnam. Her husband Dan works at the museum. Remember Dan?"

"He just started. In collections."

"No, he's been working there for almost a year." He sighs. "Maybe this was a bad idea. I just thought maybe you should get out--"

"No, I can do it." I take his hand finally, get out of the car. His hand holds mine for a second, just a second, before letting go.

A snippet of a memory races through my mind, sand, sunset, something terrible.........

~*~*~*~