Trapped In My Husband’s Golden Cage
I had memorized it the way I memorized everything, automatically, without deciding to, the habit of a person who had learned early that knowing where the exits were was a survival skill.
Fourth floor.
Entry route, day one.
We had come in through the east entrance. Down a main corridor, past a junction, past a service door on the left. Past another junction, into the stairwell.
Service door on the left.
"Service corridor," I mentioned. "We came past it on day one. East side. There is a maintenance hatch at the end of it. Old hardware, but different color handles."
"How far back?"
"Junction behind us. Turn left, thirty meters."