As predicted, halfway up the stairs, I had to sit down. And almost had to throw up.
“You OK?” Bess asked, stopping behind me.
I gave a thumbs-up and took a deep breath. The smell of fried fish and firepit smoke filled my nose, sending another wave of nausea through me.
After another second, I reached for the handrail to pull myself up. Bess grasped it instead and helped me to my feet. She didn’t release my waist until we reached the door.
I fumbled with my keys to find the right one, and when I finally got the door open, she followed me into the entrance hall. My snowboard and a pair of skis were mounted above the entrance table. To the left, a short hallway led to the bedrooms I’d converted to an office and a home gym. A bathroom was between them. To the right, through the kitchen, was the living room, dining room, and my master bedroom.
I put my phone on the kitchen bar and tried to work my house key free from its ring. Looking down, my vision rippled, and I dropped the keys twice.
Bess put her hands under mine. “Can I help you, please?”
I released the keys. “I need the big brass one off the ring.”
“OK. Go change. You smell like blood.”
“So do you.”
“And I can’t wait to get out of these clothes. Go. I’ve got this.”
I started toward my room. “There’s water and beer in the fridge if you’re thirsty.”
She looked up with surprise. “Thanks. Water would be great.”
It was the least I could do.
I walked into my bedroom and froze in front of the full-length mirror. Freaked myself out a bit, if I’m being honest. I looked like Carrie at the prom, covered in blood, with Bride-of-Frankenstein hair. Part of which was missing.
I removed my gun and walked to the bed. On the headboard was a fake panel. When I pressed it, it slowly lowered back toward me. I stuck the pistol into the mounted holster and closed it before sitting on the bed.
Balancing my boot on the nightstand, I pulled the knife from around my ankle and put it in the top drawer. Then I unlaced my boots and unbuttoned my shirt. There was no saving it. It was soaked in blood with a hole torn in the left elbow. My scathed skin stuck to the sleeve as I stripped it off. With a wince, I yanked the fabric free and threw the uniform in the trash.
There was no way in hell I was pulling my blood-soaked undershirt over my head, past the stitches and the staples. So I walked to the kitchen to get scissors.
Bess gasped and clutched her heart when she saw me. “God, you look like an extra from The Walking Dead.”
I pointed at her own shirt. “You should check a mirror.”
“Your key is on the counter.”
“Thank you.” I picked it up and took it outside, reaching up to hide it on top of the doorframe. Parked across from my driveway, a patrol car flashed its lights. I waved to McCollum.
When I returned, Bess was holding a water bottle and looking at the only photo on my fridge. Hell, maybe the only photo in my whole condo. “Are you in the Army too?” she asked.
“I was.”
“They made you shave your head?”
“Yep.”
“Who’s the guy? He’s cute.”
I sighed. Questions were the reason there weren’t photos around. “A friend.” I took the scissors out of the junk drawer and cut the center of my shirt’s thick collar. “Listen, I need to jump in the shower and wash off this blood.”
“Mind if I hang out till you’re finished? You were pretty wobbly on the stairs, and I wouldn’t feel good about leaving you alone. Probably wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight.”
As much as I hated it, she was right. “OK. I’ll be fast.”
“I’d rather you be careful. Maybe a bath would be safer.”
“Noted.” I gestured around the room. “Make yourself comfortable. The TV remote is on the sofa.” When I returned to my bedroom, I grabbed the shirt’s collar with both hands and ripped it down the front.
I stripped out of the rest of my clothes and turned on the shower. When I straightened, and the blood rushed to my head again, I realized a bath might, in fact, be safer. I leaned into the garden tub and plugged the drain before switching the shower back to the faucet.
I had to lean against the wall to regain control of my vision.
When the wash of dizziness passed, I heard my phone in the bedroom. I caught a flash of my backside in the mirror as I passed. A bright red, splotchy bruise was already blossoming from the top of my hip bone, halfway down the side of my ass. It was tender to the touch.
In my room, I checked my phone. There was a missed call from the station—they didn’t leave a message—and a text from Essex. Make it home OK?
I texted him back. Safe and whole. The key is outside for McCollum. Thanks for your help tonight.
Essex: Did the doc say anything about sleeping after the concussion?
As I was typing, he texted again.
Because I could come over and keep you awake.
My head snapped back, and it hurt. What the hell did that mean?
Essex: That came out wrong.
Me: You think?
Essex: I just meant I could take off and keep you company.
Me: You should stop while you’re behind. She said it’s fine for me to sleep.
Essex: OK.
I checked my call log again. Still not a damn word from Ransom. I put the phone on the bathroom counter and stepped into the tub. The water was hot as I eased down into it.
Carefully, I splashed my face and neck, letting red drizzle down my chest and arms. My elbow burned as the fresh blood clots melted away. When the water ran clear, I shut off the faucet and relaxed back against the wall.
Every muscle between my chin and my toes ached. The soothing heat seeped into my bones, and the room was dark and quiet except for the muffled noise from the TV in the living room. I closed my eyes, and a moment later, I was asleep.
And a moment after that, I was inexplicably not.
Chapter Four
With a gasp, I bolted upright in the bathtub. Strangely, the water didn’t slosh or splash.
It didn’t even ripple.
In fact, I could feel its pressure around my legs but not its volume. Its heat but not its texture. My knees moved sluggishly as I drew them toward my chest.
And another set of knees lay dormant beneath the water.
Oh no.
My heart pounded in my chest, drum-line loud to my supersensitive ears. The large bathroom seemed to vibrate with the sound. I covered my head with my arms.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
This was a dream. A nightmare. A byproduct of a head injury.
Absolutely nothing more.
It couldn’t be.
Yes. Of course. You have a head injury, Nyx. That’s all this is. Take a deep breath. Don’t panic . . .
The lifeless legs in the tub were definitely mine. The outside of the left one was covered in patches of silvery-pink scar tissue from my ankle to my hip. And my toes were painted a glittery blue-violet, fresh from the day before.
Nausea fluttered through my gut as a distant dream danced across my memory. Me, standing beside my body, lying in a hospital bed.
Josh stood opposite the bed. Unlike my body hooked up to all the machines, Josh was pristine. No bruises. No road rash. No twisted limbs. When our eyes met, someone else was looking at me.
“You’re not Josh.”