TWO
I wake on a bed. It’s not exactly soft, but considering what just happened to me, I’d be happy with a stone pallet. Better than a wooden casket.
There’s a rough pillow under my head and a stiff coverlet over me. A hospital? When I crack open my eyes, pain trumpets through my skull, and I shut them again.
My ribs feel tight, as if they’ve been bound. Nothing else hurts, though. I’m wearing what feels like a hospital gown, tugging at me when I move.
The room is chilly and damp. When I breathe in, there’s the smell of… camphor? That’s the word that comes to mind, though I’m not even sure what camphor is. Something medicinal. Definitely a hospital, then.
Definitely? It seems very quiet for a hospital. No footsteps on linoleum floors. No creaking of gurney or supply-cart wheels. No blipping of machines or whisper of voices.
I try peeking again, but the pain forces me into retreat.
I survived. That’s all that matters. A man lured me in with that video, and I fell for it. Someone must have heard the noise and rescued me.
In the alley, I’d remembered an article sent by a colleague. A fellow detective who also had his eye on advancement. According to the article, two bodies had been found in Edinburgh, possibly the baby steps of a nascent serial killer.
My colleague joked that maybe I could investigate it and become a homicide detective with Scotland Yard. I hadn’t had the heart to tell himthat Scotland Yard isn’t in Scotland. Let’s just say one of us has a better chance of climbing the law-enforcement ladder than the other.
I’d only skimmed the article, and mostly just to reassure myself that I wouldn’t risk becoming victim number three. The victims had been a middle-aged man killed midday in his car and an elderly woman murdered in her garden. While the murder weapon—old hemp rope—suggested a connection, the police suspected the victims themselves would end up being connected. Targeted killings rather than the thrill-motivated actions of a serial killer.
A visitor out for a jog was in no danger at all… unless she spilled coffee on the killer.
I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. I was targeted for murder, not because I had a life-insurance policy or a long-standing feud with a neighbor. I was targeted for an everyday offense. An accident, for which I sincerely apologized and tried to make amends. Part of me is laughably offended.
Plenty of time to dwell on that later. For now, my colleague’s joke might actually come true. At least the part about me helping in a homicide investigation.
I have critical information on a serial killer. A face, emblazoned in my memory. A motive, as mind-boggling as it might be. A potential location, as the man’s jacketless dress shirt had suggested he worked in a nearby office. I know what he looks like and how he chooses his victims and where police can start canvassing for an ID. It’d be much more impressive if I learned that as a cop, rather than a victim. No matter. At least I hadn’t actually died.
Died.
Nan.
I lever up in bed, my head and stomach lurching together as I swallow bile. I gag and then force myself to slow down. If I vomit, they’ll keep me in the hospital. I need to get to Nan. Everything else can wait.
The room is dark. I blink, in case my eyes are still closed. They aren’t. My head booms, and thoughts flit like fireflies, sparks of light that disappear before I can catch them.
Something’s wrong.
Hospital rooms aren’t this dark. How many times has Nan grumbled about that? Even in the middle of the night, there’s so much light.
I’m not in a hospital.
I scramble from the bed, the damned gown binding my legs and nearly toppling me face-first to the floor. While my outfit might feel like restraints, I’m not actually bound. Also, as my eyes adjust, I can make out a sliver of harsh light under a door.
I’m standing on a lumpy carpet, but in one step I’m on ice-cold wood. I catch smells I don’t recognize. There’s that one that keeps whispering “camphor.” The word strikes me as old-fashioned. Maybe something from Nan’s house?
Nan.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Great. My thoughts have metamorphosed from lazily fluttering fireflies to a hive of bees, buzzing about, stingers at the ready.
Slow down.
Step one: open the door.
I make it two more paces before the damn gown tangles up my legs, and I stumble.
Why the hell does this hospital gown reach my ankles? It takes longer than it should for that question to form, proof that my brain is still muddled. I tug at the garment. It’s more like a nightgown, and there’s something under it, something that stops me from breathing deeply. I run my hands up my sides.