Chapter 3 Fragments of Memory
# Chapter 3: Fragments of Memory
The dream came without warning. I stood before a bathroom mirror, my reflection smeared with condensation. In my hand, a tube of crimson lipstick—Chanel, shade 99 Pirate. With deliberate strokes, I began writing on the mirror's foggy surface.
Target: Neil Hamilton. Location: Penthouse. Method: Close range, silenced. Extraction route: Service elevator to parking level B3. Backup: Rooftop, northeast corner.
My handwriting was precise, methodical. This wasn't random scribbling; it was a plan. An assassination plan.
I jolted awake, gasping. Beside me, Neil stirred but didn't wake. Moonlight painted silver stripes across his sleeping form through the blinds. My husband. My target?
My heart hammered against my ribs as I slipped out of bed and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Staring at my reflection, I tried to reconcile the woman I saw with the cold professional from my dream. I opened the vanity drawer, searching until I found a lipstick tube—Chanel, shade 99 Pirate.
My fingers trembled as I held it. The dream felt too specific to be imagination. It felt like memory.
Sleep eluded me for the rest of the night. When morning came, I watched Neil prepare for his day with new wariness. Every gesture, every smile seemed loaded with potential meaning.
"I have meetings until late afternoon," he announced over breakfast, scrolling through his phone. "Will you be alright on your own?"
"Of course," I replied, forcing a smile. "I thought I'd explore the apartment more. Maybe it will trigger some memories."
His gaze lingered on me a moment too long. "That's a good idea. Just take it easy."
After Neil left, I began my search in earnest. The bedroom and main living spaces revealed nothing beyond what I'd already found—a life carefully curated but lacking personal history. No old journals, no mementos from childhood, no photos older than two years.
The guest bedrooms were similarly impersonal, decorated like luxury hotel suites. One door at the end of the hall was locked—another mystery for later. I turned my attention instead to a room Neil had briefly shown me but hadn't emphasized: his "collection room."
It was unlocked, surprisingly. Inside, climate-controlled display cases lined the walls, containing what appeared to be Neil's hobbies and passions: vintage watches, first-edition books, antique weapons behind glass. I moved through the room slowly, searching for anything that might trigger memory.
A small door in the corner led to what seemed to be a private display room. Inside, a single illuminated case dominated the center of the space. I approached cautiously, breath catching when I saw its contents.
A crystal box, elegantly crafted, filled with bullet casings. Each one was mounted on a tiny stand, meticulously labeled with dates. My fingers pressed against the glass as I read them—dates from the past two years, approximately one every month or two.
The most recent date was exactly one week ago—the day before I'd "awakened" in this apartment with no memories. I peered closer at this newest casing. Unlike the others, which gleamed with polished cleanliness, this one bore a faint smudge of color on its rim.
Crimson. The exact shade of my lipstick.
My hand flew to my mouth as another memory fragment surfaced—the sensation of pressing a bullet between my lips before loading it into a chamber. A ritual. My ritual.
I backed away from the case, mind racing. Was I some kind of assassin? Was Neil my target? But if so, why was I here, playing house with him? And why was he collecting the casings from what must have been failed attempts on his life?
The sound of the front door opening sent me scrambling out of the collection room. I barely made it to the living room sofa, grabbing a magazine to appear casual, when Neil appeared.
"You're home early," I said, hoping my voice sounded normal.
"Meeting ended sooner than expected." He loosened his tie, studying me. "How are you feeling? Any memories returning?"
I shook my head. "Nothing concrete. Just... feelings, mostly."
"What kind of feelings?" His tone was light, but his eyes were watchful.
"Confusion, mainly." I forced a smile. "I found some headache pills in the bathroom cabinet. They helped."
Neil nodded, apparently satisfied with my answer. "I thought we might have dinner out tonight. There's a restaurant you used to love."
The evening passed in a strange dance of normalcy and suspicion. The restaurant was indeed exquisite—a Michelin-starred establishment where staff greeted Neil by name but showed no recognition of me, despite his claim that we dined there regularly. I sipped wine I didn't drink and picked at food I couldn't taste, watching Neil for any slip, any clue.
"Tell me how we met again," I prompted over dessert.
Neil smiled, the practiced story flowing easily. "The Sotheby's auction, two years ago. You outbid me on a Klimt sketch I'd had my eye on for months."
"And you weren't angry?"
"I was furious," he laughed. "Until I saw you. Then I was just intrigued."
"What was I doing at an art auction? Was I a collector too?"
A flicker of hesitation. "You said you were acquiring it for a client. You worked as an art consultant then."
"And now?"
"You left that behind when we got serious. Art consulting requires too much travel."
I nodded as if this made sense, though nothing about it rang true. Throughout the evening, I caught Neil watching me when he thought I wasn't looking—studying my reactions, gauging my responses. Testing me, perhaps.
That night, the dream returned, but with new details. In this version, I finished writing the plan on the mirror, then opened a hidden compartment behind a loose tile—the same place I'd hidden the razor blade. From it, I retrieved a small case containing what I somehow knew was a poisoned hairpin.
I awoke gasping, the dream still vivid. Beside me, Neil slept soundly—or pretended to. Moving silently, I slipped into the bathroom and checked behind the loose tile. The razor blade remained where I'd hidden it, but there was something else too—a small indentation in the plaster, as if something had been stored there for a long time.
The hairpin from my dream?
Days passed in this strange limbo of domestic bliss and covert investigation. Neil remained the attentive husband—bringing me flowers, recounting stories of our supposed life together, never pushing for physical intimacy beyond chaste kisses and embraces that I tolerated while my skin crawled.
On the fifth day, I found my opportunity when Neil announced he needed to visit his office downtown.
"Will you be alright alone? I can send Mrs. Chen to keep you company."
"I'll be fine," I assured him. "Maybe I'll take a nap. I didn't sleep well last night."
The moment his private elevator departed, I began a more thorough search of the apartment. The locked guest room yielded to my hairpin technique after several tense minutes. Inside was what appeared to be a home office—my office, according to the framed credentials on the wall. Lois Hamilton, Art Authentication Specialist.
The desk contained standard supplies but nothing personal. The computer was password protected. Filing cabinets held what appeared to be legitimate art authentication reports bearing my signature—signatures that matched my handwriting perfectly, though I had no memory of writing them.
I was about to leave when I noticed something odd about the bookshelf—one section protruded slightly. Pressing against it, I felt it give way, revealing a hidden compartment behind the false panel. Inside lay a sleek metal case.
My hands trembled as I lifted it out. The biometric lock released at my thumbprint—clear evidence that whatever this was, it belonged to me. Inside, nestled in custom foam cutouts, lay an array of specialized equipment: lock picks far more sophisticated than hairpins, a set of glass vials containing clear liquids, several passports with my photo but different names, and a slim knife with an elaborate handle.
These weren't the tools of an art consultant. They were the tools of someone who lived in shadows.
As I examined the knife, another memory surged forward—the sensation of sliding this exact blade between ribs, the particular resistance of flesh, the practiced twist to ensure maximum damage. My stomach heaved, and I barely made it to the adjoining bathroom before emptying its contents.
Afterward, I splashed cold water on my face, staring at my reflection. Who was I? What had I done?
I returned everything to its place, ensuring the hidden compartment was properly sealed. Back in the master bedroom, I lay down, mind spinning with questions I couldn't answer.
When Neil returned hours later, I pretended to have just woken from a nap. He brought dinner from what he claimed was my favorite Italian restaurant, and we ate on the terrace overlooking the glittering city.
"Any new memories today?" he asked casually.
I hesitated, then decided to test him. "I had a strange dream about a lipstick."
His hand paused momentarily as he reached for his wine. "What kind of dream?"
"I was writing something with it. On a mirror." I watched him carefully. "Does that mean anything to you?"
Neil's expression remained neutral, but I caught the slight tightening around his eyes. "You used to do that sometimes—leave me messages on the bathroom mirror when you'd leave early for work. Reminders, little notes." He smiled. "Usually with that red Chanel lipstick you love."
A plausible explanation. Too plausible, as if prepared in advance.
That night, I lay beside Neil, listening to his measured breathing, wondering which of us was the greater danger to the other. The bullet casings with my lipstick mark. The assassination plan from my dream. The tools hidden in my office.
I was no art consultant. And Neil was no ordinary businessman. Whatever game we were playing, it was deadly—and I was operating at a severe disadvantage without my memories.
As I drifted toward sleep, one certainty formed in my mind: I needed to discover what had happened one week ago—the day of the most recent bullet casing, the day before my memories vanished. The answer lay somewhere in this luxurious prison, and I was running out of time to find it.
