My bladder was what nudged me from my slumber. We pre-gamed our intimacy with virgin daiquiris in the pool and my body was ready to expel the fruity goodness at 5:30 in the morning.
I sat up in bed and instantly forgot about having to go to the bathroom. From the bed, I saw the doors to the closet resting open.
I got out of the bed and walked to the closet.
I looked in the open closet. The shackles were empty.
“Sonya?” I whispered.
I checked the bathroom. No Sonya.
Had I forgotten to lock the shackles? I couldn’t remember.
The door to the bedroom was closed. I walked over and put my ear to it. I didn’t hear anything.
I opened the bedroom door and peered out. The rest of the house seemed still, silent, dead. I left the bedroom and took off exploring.
My first destination was Sonya’s parents’ room at the end of the hall. It seems crazy to say now, but more than a year into half living at Sonya’s place, I had never been in her parents’ room.
The room let out a musty scent the second I cracked open the door. I peeked inside and saw a room that looked lived-in, but clearly had not been touched in quite some time. It reminded me of the re-staged historical rooms you commonly see in museums which try to capture how a place may have looked 100 years ago.
Everything about the room was unnerving. There was a pair of white boxer briefs on the floor to the side of the bed, an uncapped pen rested on a calendar on a desk, half-empty glasses of water rested on each nightstand. What looked like a red wine stain at the foot of the bed which trickled burgundy splatters into the bathroom.
I took my investigation to the rest of the house. No luck. I even checked the garage and backyard and saw no sign of Sonya, or her potential exit. All the doors were still locked. Her car was still in the garage.