No answer.
I knocked again, softer.
Then I turned the handle and pushed the door open.
“Don? It’s me.”
The room was lit only by a few candles and the silver light of the moon pouring through the tall windows. The fire was burning. The desk was cleared.
His wheelchair stood in the middle of the room.
Empty.
My breath caught. “Don?”
A shadow moved by the window.
A figure stood there, tall, perhaps six foot two, with broad shoulders and a straight, athletic back. He wore a crisp white shirt open at the collar and dark trousers. His hair was thick and dark, brushed back from his forehead. He stood completely still, with his back to me, gazing out at the sea.
I took one step back.
“I’m sorry, I think I’ve… Who are you? Where’s my husband?”
The man didn’t move.
And that was when I saw what he was holding in his hands.
It was draped over his forearm like a heavy coat, and for a moment my mind refused to understand what it was. A thick, pale, rubbery mass, with sagging folds, shaped like a man’s torso. Beside it, hanging from his fingers, was a mask of flesh. Scarred. Twisted. A face I knew.
My husband’s face.
