Chapter 3 - THE MIDNIGHT VISITORAt 11:30 PM, the front door unlocked.
I was sitting in the wheelchair in the dark living room, shoulders slumped, head lolling at an uncomfortable angle, staring blankly at the silent television screen.
Melissa stepped into the foyer, kicking off her Louboutin heels with a soft sigh of exhaustion. She tossed her designer leather briefcase onto the entryway table, pulled off her blazer, and walked into the living room, rubbing her temples.
"Ugh, what a nightmare," she muttered to the empty room, not expecting an answer. She walked over to the bar cart, poured herself a finger of expensive scotch, and took a long sip. Then, she walked over to my wheelchair, looking down at me with an expression that combined deep boredom with practiced pity.
"Still awake, Ethan?" she asked, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. "You look tired. Did Rosa give you your evening tonic?"
I let my head loll slightly to the left, mimicking the exact motor deficit I used to exhibit. "Mmmph... yes."
"Good boy." She reached down and patted my cheek, her skin smelling of stale boardroom air and expensive perfume. "You just hold on for a few more days, darling. Tomorrow is the big shareholder meeting. Once the restructuring is voted through, we’re taking that extended vacation to the Amalfi Coast. Just you, me, and your memories."
She turned around, walking toward the kitchen to drop off her glass, completely blind to the reflection in the dark, double-paned living room window.
In the glass, she couldn't see me standing up behind her.
I didn't make a sound. My custom Italian leather shoes made no noise on the Turkish rug.
As she reached the kitchen island, a soft, deliberate click echoed through the quiet house. I had flipped the heavy deadbolt on the kitchen service door and pocketed the key.
Melissa froze, sensing a shift in the air pressure, a change in the room's gravity. She slowly turned around, her eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror.
I wasn't in the wheelchair.
I was standing three feet away from her, my spine straight, my shoulders broad, looking down at her with eyes burning with a fury cold enough to freeze blood.
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"Looking for me, Melissa?" I asked. My voice didn't slur. It was deep, resonant, and entirely steady.
Melissa dropped her crystal glass. It shattered against the tile floor, amber liquid splashing across her designer shoes, but she didn't even flinch. Her face drained of all color, her lips parting in a silent, suffocating gasp.
