Chapter 8 - The Locked Room
I knew I couldn't confront him yet; he was too smart, too resourceful, and I was far too vulnerable. I needed hard, undeniable proof. I needed to know exactly who I was before I supposedly met Arthur, because the tragic memories Dr. Thorne had described felt like someone else's life, like a tragic movie I had watched in passing rather than lived. The next morning, after spitting out the toxic pill and ensuring his car was gone, I began a methodical, tearing, frantic search of our massive house. I went through his home office first, checking every drawer, every file cabinet, every digital folder on his unlocked laptop. Everything was clean. Much too clean. But as I was looking through his extensive floor-to-ceiling bookshelf, desperately pulling books to see if anything was hidden behind them, I noticed the baseboard near the floor was slightly scuffed and worn, as if the heavy oak bookcase was frequently moved. With my heart pounding wildly in my throat, I threw my entire body weight against the side of the bookcase. With a heavy, mechanical groan, it slid outward on hidden, well-oiled casters, revealing a solid steel door with a glowing biometric fingerprint scanner. Arthur had a hidden, high-tech room in our own house. Panic surged through my chest, making it hard to breathe. I didn't have his fingerprint, and guessing a biometric lock was impossible. I slumped against the wall in defeat, tears of frustration welling up, until I suddenly remembered a bizarre, obsessive habit Arthur had. Every night, without fail, he carefully wiped down his crystal whiskey glass and locked it in his liquor cabinet. He never left prints. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of clear packing tape, and fetched a fine dusting brush and dark powder from my makeup kit. I had seen this forensic trick in crime movies; I just prayed desperately that it worked in real life. I found a stray, faint thumb smudge on a glass he had absentmindedly left near the sink that morning. Very carefully, holding my breath, I dusted it, lifted the print with the sticky tape, ran back to the hidden door, and pressed the tape firmly against the glowing scanner. The machine beeped. A green light flashed. The heavy steel door clicked open with a pressurized hiss.
