Chapter 7 Truth Bullet

# Chapter 7: Truth Bullet

I didn't sleep that night. How could I, with my mind racing between conflicting narratives and the knife hidden beneath my pillow? When morning finally arrived, I had formulated a plan—risky but necessary. I needed evidence that couldn't be manipulated, something beyond Neil's carefully curated explanations.

While Neil showered, I accessed his phone. The passcode came to me instinctively—another fragment of memory resurfacing. Inside, I found what I needed: the address of Hamilton Industries headquarters. If Neil truly ran the company, if his story about corporate espionage was legitimate, I would find answers there.

"I thought I might go out today," I announced over breakfast. "Maybe shopping would trigger some memories."

Neil looked up from his tablet. "That sounds like a good idea. I'll have Karl drive you."

"I'd prefer to go alone," I countered. "I need space to think."

A flash of concern crossed his features. "Lois, it's not safe. If anyone from your former organization recognized you—"

"You said they think I'm dead," I reminded him. "And I won't go far. Just to that shopping center we passed on the way to the amusement park."

After a measured silence, Neil nodded. "At least take the secure phone I gave you. And check in every hour?"

I agreed, accepting the compromise while knowing I had no intention of following through. Once downstairs, I allowed the security team to arrange a car, but gave the driver the shopping center address. Three blocks from our destination, I feigned sudden nausea and asked him to pull over near a pharmacy.

"I'll just grab something for my stomach and call when I'm ready to be picked up," I assured him.

The moment he drove away, I hailed a taxi and directed it to Hamilton Industries.

The gleaming skyscraper matched the blueprints I'd found in the attic. I entered the lobby confidently, dressed in the designer clothes Neil had provided, and approached the security desk.

"I need to see my husband's office," I stated to the guard. "Neil Hamilton. I'm Lois."

The guard's expression shifted from polite interest to visible shock. "Mrs. Hamilton! I... we weren't notified you'd be visiting today."

"It's a surprise," I replied smoothly. "I've been away recovering, as I'm sure you know."

"Of course, of course," he stammered, clearly flustered. He made a quick call, then handed me a visitor badge. "Mr. Hamilton is in a meeting, but his assistant will meet you upstairs."

The elevator required keycard access for the executive floors. As the doors opened on the 47th floor, a nervous-looking woman in her forties greeted me.

"Mrs. Hamilton! What an unexpected pleasure. I'm Victoria, Mr. Hamilton's executive assistant."

"Hello, Victoria." I smiled warmly. "Neil doesn't know I'm here. I wanted to surprise him and see his office."

"Of course." She led me down a corridor lined with modern art. "Mr. Hamilton is in the quarterly security briefing. He should be finished within the hour."

"Perfect. I'll just wait in his office."

Victoria hesitated only briefly before nodding. "Right this way."

Neil's corner office was impressive—wall-to-wall windows offering panoramic city views, minimalist furniture that screamed expensive taste, and subtle security features I immediately identified: bulletproof glass, reinforced door, concealed panic button under the desk.

"Can I get you anything?" Victoria asked. "Coffee? Water?"

"Water would be lovely," I replied. "And perhaps you could tell me where the restroom is? I'd like to freshen up after the drive."

Once Victoria left to fetch water, I began my search. Neil's computer was locked and likely encrypted, but I was more interested in physical evidence. The office contained the standard executive accessories—awards, business books, family photos. I examined the latter closely, noting they were the same perfectly edited images displayed in our apartment.

A framed newspaper article caught my attention: "Hamilton Industries CEO Foils Corporate Espionage Attempt." The story, dated eight months ago, detailed how Neil had personally uncovered an attempt to steal proprietary technology. The accompanying photo showed Neil shaking hands with FBI officials.

This aligned with his story about targeting corporate spies, but proved nothing about my role.

I moved to the private bathroom, searching for anything personal. In the cabinet beneath the sink, I found a first aid kit far more comprehensive than standard office issue—including materials for treating gunshot wounds.

When Victoria returned with water, I thanked her and asked innocuous questions about how long she'd worked for Neil (twelve years) and whether he'd been in the office much this past week (hardly at all; he'd been working from home).

"I should let you get back to work," I said finally. "I'll just wait here for Neil. Would you mind giving us some privacy when he arrives? I'd like to surprise him properly."

Victoria smiled knowingly. "Of course, Mrs. Hamilton."

Alone again, I continued my investigation, focusing on a locked cabinet behind Neil's desk. The lock was sophisticated but yielded to techniques my fingers remembered. Inside, I found security files—including surveillance footage from the company parking garage.

I inserted the flash drive into Neil's computer and, using password-cracking methods that came to me instinctively, gained access. The footage was organized by date. I selected the folder from one week ago—the day of my "accident."

The first few clips showed nothing unusual—employees arriving, executives with security escorts, delivery personnel. Then I found it: footage from 11:43 PM, showing a dark corner of the garage's lowest level.

A figure in tactical gear—me—moved with practiced stealth toward a private elevator. I carried a compact rifle case and wore a communication device in my ear. Every movement screamed professional assassin on a mission.

I watched, heart pounding, as my on-screen self reached the elevator and bypassed the security with a hacking device. But before I could enter, headlights illuminated the area. A black SUV approached rapidly. I dropped into a defensive stance, weapon appearing in my hand with practiced efficiency.

Neil emerged from the vehicle, alone and unarmed, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture. We appeared to argue—my weapon trained on him, his hands gradually lowering as he spoke. Though there was no audio, the intensity of the exchange was evident.

Then something unexpected happened. I lowered my weapon. Neil stepped closer. We were inches apart when suddenly I shoved him violently aside—just as a muzzle flash appeared from the darkness behind us.

The bullet meant for Neil caught me instead. I collapsed, blood spreading across my tactical gear. Neil caught me as I fell, his expression transformed by panic and rage. Another shot narrowly missed him as he dragged me behind a concrete pillar.

The camera angle changed, showing a second shooter emerging from the shadows—another operative in similar tactical gear. Neil placed me gently on the ground, then moved with shocking speed and precision, disarming the attacker with combat techniques no ordinary businessman would possess.

The struggle was brief and brutal. Neil subdued the attacker, then returned to me, applying pressure to my wound while calling someone on his phone. Within minutes, a private medical team arrived—not an ambulance, but what appeared to be a specialized trauma unit. They stabilized me on site before transferring me to a unmarked medical transport.

The footage ended there. I sat back, stunned. What I'd just witnessed confirmed parts of Neil's story—I had apparently warned him rather than killed him, and I had indeed been shot by another operative. But Neil's combat skills raised new questions. He'd moved like a trained operative himself, dispatching my would-be replacement with professional efficiency.

I was so absorbed in processing what I'd seen that I nearly missed the sound of the office door opening. I quickly ejected the flash drive and slipped it into my pocket.

"Lois?" Neil stood in the doorway, surprise and concern battling across his features. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for answers," I replied honestly. "Your security team thinks I'm at the shopping center."

Neil closed the door behind him. "How did you get here?"

"Taxi. It wasn't difficult."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair—a gesture that somehow seemed familiar. "I wish you had told me. It's not safe for you to be out alone."

"Because my former employers might recognize me?" I challenged. "Or because you're afraid of what I might discover?"

Neil's eyes narrowed slightly. "What have you been looking at?"

I decided to play my hand. "Security footage from the garage. From the night I was shot."

A tense silence fell between us. Neil moved to the windows, gazing out at the city below.

"And?" he finally asked.

"And you move like someone with extensive combat training. Not like a CEO."

He turned to face me. "I told you I investigated you after your second attempt. Did you think that just meant running a background check? I needed to understand what I was dealing with."

"So you trained in combat techniques?"

"I've always had training," Neil admitted. "My company develops security technology for military applications. I didn't get those contracts by being soft."

It was a plausible explanation, but I sensed there was more. "The footage shows me warning you, taking a bullet meant for you. Why would I do that if I was sent to kill you?"

Neil's expression softened. "Because somewhere along the way, between your first failed attempt and the third mission, something changed between us. You couldn't go through with it."

"And my employers sent a backup to eliminate both of us," I concluded.

"Yes."

I pulled the flash drive from my pocket, turning it over in my fingers. "There's something you're still not telling me. The full truth."

Neil stepped closer, voice lowering. "Lois, my office isn't secure. Not for this conversation."

"Then where?"

"There's a place. Somewhere only you and I know about." He held out his hand. "Will you trust me enough to go there?"

I hesitated, then nodded. Whatever game we were playing, it was time for the final round.

Neil made a brief call to cancel his remaining meetings, then led me to a private elevator that descended to a secure parking level. We took his personal car—he insisted on driving—and left the city, heading toward the coastline.

"Where are we going?" I asked as urban sprawl gave way to more isolated surroundings.

"A safe house," Neil replied. "One not connected to either of our official identities."

After an hour's drive, we turned onto a private road leading to a modern structure perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean. The architecture was minimal and elegant—glass and steel designed to blend with the rugged landscape.

"This place is registered to a shell corporation," Neil explained as we entered. "No connection to Hamilton Industries or any of my known aliases."

"Or mine?" I asked pointedly.

A faint smile touched his lips. "You're the one who found it, actually. After your second attempt failed, you suggested we needed neutral territory."

The interior was sparsely but comfortably furnished, with expansive windows framing the dramatic coastline. No photographs, no personal items—a place designed for anonymity.

Neil moved to what appeared to be a normal bookshelf and pressed a concealed switch. The shelf slid aside, revealing a secure room filled with surveillance equipment, weapons, and multiple screens displaying security feeds from the property perimeter.

"Now we can talk freely," he said, activating a device that emitted a soft hum. "Signal jammer. No one can listen in."

I crossed my arms. "I'm ready for the full truth, Neil. No more partial explanations."

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "You might want to sit down."

I remained standing. Neil sighed, then reached for a tablet on the desk. He pulled up a video file and turned the screen toward me.

"This is from six days ago, after your surgery. You were still heavily sedated."

The video showed me in a hospital bed, pale and connected to various monitors. Neil sat beside me, holding my hand. My eyes fluttered open, unfocused from medication.

"Neil?" My voice on the recording was weak, raspy.

"I'm here," he replied, leaning closer.

"Did you get him? The mole?"

Neil's expression on the video was grim. "Not yet. But we're close."

"My cover..." I struggled to speak. "Is my cover intact?"

"Rest," Neil soothed. "Everything's under control."

My hand clutched his weakly. "The mission... I had to make it look real."

"I know," Neil replied. "You did perfectly."

"If they find out I missed on purpose again..." My voice trailed off as unconsciousness reclaimed me.

Neil stopped the video. "You weren't sent to kill me, Lois. You were working with me."

I stared at him. "What?"

"The assassination attempts were staged—elaborate covers to establish your credibility with the organization we're infiltrating."

"We?"

Neil took a deep breath. "We're both operatives, Lois. Different agencies that formed a joint task force three years ago. We were partnered to infiltrate an international assassination network that's been targeting technology executives."

He pulled up another file—personnel records that showed both of us with government credentials. Mine listed me as an undercover specialist with an agency whose name was redacted.

"The first 'attempt' on my life was our initial operation," Neil continued. "You established yourself as a freelancer willing to take high-profile targets. The second attempt cemented your reputation—the assassin who couldn't be caught, who left her signature lipstick mark as a taunt."

"But the bullet casings in your collection—"

"Real bullets from our staged attempts. Evidence we preserved."

My mind raced to process this revelation. "And the third mission? What went wrong?"

Neil's expression darkened. "We identified three potential moles in my company—executives who might be connected to the assassination network. The plan was for you to stage another attempt that would flush out the real mole. But someone made you before you could implement the plan."

"The other operative in the garage footage," I said, the pieces beginning to connect.

"Yes. A real assassin, sent because the organization had become suspicious of your repeated failures. They injected you with something before your mission—a new compliance drug their scientists developed. It was supposed to ensure you wouldn't fail again."

"But I warned you anyway."

Neil nodded. "Whatever they gave you, it didn't completely override your training—or your feelings." He paused. "The doctors believe the drug, combined with the trauma of your wound, caused your amnesia."

"And you didn't tell me any of this when I woke up because..."

"Because we didn't know if the drug was still active in your system. If it might have created triggers or kill switches in your mind." Neil's eyes met mine. "The doctors advised creating a controlled environment, allowing your memories to return naturally rather than forcing them."

"The perfect husband scenario," I said, understanding dawning.

"It wasn't all a scenario," Neil said quietly. "The missions might have been staged, but what developed between us wasn't."

I moved to the windows, staring out at the ocean as I absorbed this new reality. It explained so much—my combat training, the hidden equipment, Neil's own skills. But one thing still didn't make sense.

"If we're partners, why do I have no emotional connection to you? Wouldn't that have returned with my other muscle memories?"

Neil approached slowly, maintaining a respectful distance. "The doctors warned that emotional memories are different from procedural ones. Your body remembers how to fight, how to use weapons—but feelings are more complex."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small data drive. "This contains everything—our mission files, communication records, personal videos we made here at the safe house. I won't force you to view them until you're ready."

I accepted the drive, turning it over in my hand. "And the knife wound on your side? The one that matches the blade in my hidden case?"

A smile touched Neil's lips. "Training accident, two years ago. You were teaching me close-quarter combat techniques. You pulled the strike, but not quite enough."

The explanation was so mundane, so ordinary compared to the elaborate scenarios I'd imagined, that I almost laughed.

"So what happens now?" I asked.

"That's up to you," Neil replied. "The mission is on hold until you're fully recovered. We've fed disinformation to the organization, making them believe both of us died in the garage confrontation. It's bought us time."

"And if my memory doesn't fully return?"

"Then we adapt. Start over if necessary." His eyes held mine. "Whatever you need, Lois."

The sincerity in his voice resonated with something deep within me—a feeling I couldn't yet name but recognized as true. For the first time since awakening in that luxurious apartment, I felt grounded in reality.

"I want to see everything," I decided, holding up the data drive. "All of it."

Neil nodded. "I'll give you privacy." He turned to leave the secure room.

"Wait," I called. When he paused, I asked the question that had been hovering at the edges of my consciousness. "Were we really married? Before all this?"

A soft smile spread across his face—genuine, unguarded. "Yes. For almost a year now. Though not quite as recently as I told you when you first woke up."

"And the photographs in the apartment? The ones that changed?"

"The first set were rushed jobs—our technical team put them together when we realized you had amnesia. The replacements were our actual photos, once we retrieved them from secure storage."

It was almost too much to process. I was not an assassin sent to kill Neil, but his partner, his ally—his wife. We weren't enemies or captor and prisoner, but a team who had infiltrated a dangerous organization together.

"I need time," I said finally.

"Take all the time you need," Neil replied. "I'll be upstairs when you're ready to talk."

Left alone in the secure room, I inserted the data drive into the computer and began reviewing its contents. Files upon files documented our joint mission—operation reports, surveillance logs, cover identity details. And as Neil had promised, personal videos we'd recorded here at the safe house.

I clicked on one dated six months ago. The screen filled with my own face—relaxed, smiling in a way I hadn't since losing my memory.

"Testing, testing," my recorded self said playfully. "Special Agent Lois Hamilton's personal log. Day 432 of living a double life."

The camera panned to show Neil beside me on a couch—this couch, in this safe house—his arm draped casually around my shoulders.

"Any words of wisdom for your future self?" he asked, pressing a kiss to my temple.

My recorded self considered for a moment. "Trust your instincts, but also trust Neil. Even when everything seems confusing or dangerous, remember: he's the one person in this operation who will never betray you."

The video ended, freezing on a frame of us looking at each other with unmistakable affection. I stared at the image, searching for any sense of recognition, any emotional connection to the woman I had been and the relationship we had shared.

Nothing came—no flood of memories, no sudden emotional revelation. But as I continued through the files, I found something more valuable: evidence of truth. Our mission was real. Our partnership was real. And based on every indication in these files, our feelings for each other had been real too.

I didn't remember loving Neil Hamilton yet. But for the first time, I believed that I had. And perhaps, given time, I would again.