Page 40 of Kylie

Saturday, June 4, 2022

Kylie

From the moment my memories returned, things changed.

The woman tasked with caring for me became less friendly. Odd since I hadn’t thought it even possible.

I had regained some of my strength, but my left leg was still incredibly weak. It wasn’t as weak as I was pretending, though. Something told me that once I could walk without the aid of a walker, things were going to change. Since my gray matter was no longer cloudy, I knew I wasn’t a terrorist, so this confinement wasn’t a legal maneuver by the government. Someone—I had yet to learn the man’s name—was keeping me there against my will.

I wanted to go home, but I had yet to share that with anyone. The last thing I wanted was for them to use it against me. And they would. Of that I had no doubt. I cried every night, but only when it was dark and only silently. Maybe it wasn’t so much crying as it was letting a few tears slip out. I was being watched every minute of every day. And since these people clearly had an agenda, any weakness I showed would give them ammunition.

Speaking of ammunition… Speaker Man, the guy I suspected was in charge, hadn’t returned, but whenever I thought about him, I heard his voice clearly in my head.

Why was I declared dead?

Because I deemed it so.

Yeah. He was in charge for sure. And since winning him over clearly wasn’t an option, I had to come up with a different plan. The problem was, I had no idea why I was even here. Didn’t have a clue what he wanted from me. Punishment, sure, but to what extent I didn’t know.

Allison continued to come, but she no longer talked to me while we were in the room. Every now and then, she would speak in hushed tones in the hallway, but she never relayed anything of significance. Not since she warned me it was in my best interest not to ask questions.

I had heeded that warning in the beginning. But as the days passed, I was no longer willing to be the passive victim. I wanted to go home to my babies, to Travis and Gage. Did they really believe I was dead? Had Speaker Guy given them the death certificate he mentioned, selling them some sob story about succumbing to my injuries or some shit, and they believed him? And if they had, what were they doing now? It pained me to think of them moving on without me, forgetting me. But at the same time, I wanted to keep them far, far away from this asshole. As long as he was focused on me, he wasn’t hurting them. Strangely, I found some comfort in that.

Now, as I sat in bed, I looked up at the ceiling, finding the red glowing light. I stared at it intently, letting a minute pass. Then another.

“We need to talk,” I said, trying to make my voice stern.

I didn’t know whether anyone had been paying attention until two days later, when he showed up. I had expected something was going on because the nurse had been on edge all morning. She got that way from time to time. Usually after she had a phone conversation. I suspected whoever Speaker Guy was, people—even those who worked for him—didn’t like him all that much. Whether it was fear or mere distaste was yet to be determined.

“Hello, Kylie,” he greeted as he strolled into the room as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

He was wearing a suit, just as he had the last time I saw him. It was black and a little faded with age. The crisp white shirt underneath had been ironed within an inch of its life and starched to the point I was surprised the guy could move. His tie was burgundy, and the knot at his throat looked a little loose, as though it had been choking him. His dark brown hair was brushed back from his face, and I was pretty sure he’d gotten a little more gray since the last time I saw him.

I watched him make his way toward me, but I didn’t return the greeting.

“You said you wanted to talk,” he stated, staring at me with cold brown eyes.

“I said we need to talk,” I corrected.

He appeared amused. “About?”

“What’s your name?”

He leveled his gaze at my face. “Martin Calloway.”

I kept my tone cool and even, the same way I did when I was talking to one of my kids when they were in trouble. “What is it that you do?”

His brown eyes skimmed and assessed, his full attention on me. “I work for the FBI.”

Based on the way he said it, I was supposed to be impressed.

For the record, I wasn’t.

However, I felt a little better. If the FBI were in charge of my care, there was a good chance I would be getting out of his place soon. Once they realized they couldn’t charge me with whatever they thought I’d done, surely they would let me call my family so I could go home.

“Are you the boss?” I asked because I could tell he enjoyed talking about himself, and I was hoping to get some actual information.

“My official title is assistant special agent in charge. I handle transnational organized crime.”