Detached

by Elicia Hyder

  When I’d started with the department, Winter Village, the lake’s shopping and dining mecca, was where my team had introduced me to “Sunday Funday.” The one off-day a month when we’d all meet up for deep-fried food and endless buckets of beer. The guys were now jealous because I could walk (or stumble) home after indulging too much.

  Down the hill and directly across the street from my building, the patio of Delaney’s Irish Pub faced my kitchen window. The pub’s bay doors were open, and a loud and drunken “Whiskey in the Jar” blared from the stage inside. The crowd merrily sang along.

  I pushed open the car door, taking a second to collect my wits before getting out. It was challenging, and the accordion whining from the bar certainly didn’t help.

  Bess ran around the car to assist. When I stood and the blood rushed to my head, I was thankful she was there. After a moment, the lights stopped twinkling behind my eyes, and I tucked my gun into the back of my waistband.

  Bess looped my weapons belt over her arm. “Geez, this thing is heavy. You have to wear it every day?”

  “Every day I’m on duty.”

  “Which way?”

  I pointed to the last unit on the right, where I had a garage space on the ground floor. The front door was up a flight of stairs.

  Stairs that were likely going to kick my ass.

  “Do you know your neighbors?” She was looking down the row of condos.

  “No.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  Yes. As much as I hated to admit it, I needed her help. “Can you just make sure I get inside without passing out?”

  “Sure. Lead the way.”

  We started up the steps to 130 Snowshoe Boulevard, Unit 9-C, my new end condo with a partial view of the lake over the roofs of the shopping village.

  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.”

  He seemed mildly surprised, and he shook his head.

  “You’re Death.”

  He nodded.

  “Are you here for me?” I asked, my voice steady and calm.

  “No.”

  “For Josh?”

  His eyes didn’t waver from mine, nor did they blink.

  “Is he in pain?”

  “No.”

  “Can you take me instead?”

  “No.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “There is no time. You must return. Now.”

  The last thing I remembered seeing was his hand coming toward my face. At the time, I’d thought it was just a crazy trauma-and-drug-induced dream. But this—whatever was happening now—felt exactly the same.

  No, no, no . . .

  This couldn’t be real.

  “I’ll be dead by morning,” Elias had said in my car just a few short hours before.

  If he was dead, his “gift” was tied to his bloodline, and upon his death, it would pass to his firstborn—Ransom.

  Ransom.

  Not me.

  I cradled my head in my trembling hands. It was Ransom’s destiny to carry on the demented family legacy.

  Not mine.

  Ransom wanted it. Needed it. Hell, he even had the word “DETACHED” tattooed across his knuckles. I daresay the gift was the only thing he clung to all those years of our parents being locked up. To him, it was a superpower soon to be in his grasp.

  Not to me.

  Never to me.

  This . . . whatever this was had destroyed any shred of normality us kids were supposed to have. We’d been orphaned. I was born on the floor of a women’s prison, for Christ’s sake, because of this thing. This vile, wicked thing.

  The body beneath me flinched, sending tiny waves across the surface of the water.

  This can’t be possible.

  I needed to wake myself, but how?

  I pinched my arm and slapped my cheeks, but nothing happened. In the movies, people always woke up from dreams by either falling or dying.

  Falling, I was brave enough to try.

  Gripping the sides of the tub, I pushed myself up. There was no headrush, no dizziness, no pain.

  Not a good sign at all.

  When I stepped out of the tub, I should have been dripping. I wasn’t. Looking down, I expected my body to be transparent, ghostly. To the contrary, it was clear and in focus, unlike the rest of the bathroom. It was also very naked. My tattoos were bright and colorful, and the scars down the length of my entire left side were still visible.

  I touched the side of my head. No staples or swelling. Interesting, since they were so fresh and the scars were so old.

  On the chance I wasn’t dreaming, I closed my eyes to avoid the mirror. If what Elias had once said about them was true, they could be dangerous. I couldn’t remember exactly why, but the warning had freaked me the hell out as a kid. Something about getting lost inside—or stuck.

  With shaking hands, I extended my arms at my sides. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and—

  Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.

  My phone was ringing. Keeping my eyes off the mirror, I crept to the counter and looked at my bright phone screen.

  Ransom.

  I reached for it. When my fingertips neared it, the phone gave a violent sizzle. Then the pixels splintered across the display, and the glass screen cracked.

  Shit.

  Frustrated, I pressed my eyes closed, extended my arms again, and fell backward—a surefire way to wake oneself from a dream. Mid freefall, I freaked and caught myself, landing hard with my bare ass on the cold tile floor.

  It hurt.

  I wasn’t dreaming.

  I wasn’t hallucinating from a head injury.

  I was detached.

  My consciousness, my spirit, was free.

  I crawled back to the bathtub, where my body was hyperventilating and my heart thumped so hard I could see my pulse pounding in the side of my neck. The tendons strained between my jaw and shoulders, and my hands were balled into fists.

  “I can’t do this right now!” I panted, pulling my hands back through my hair. I closed my eyes again. How do I make it stop?

  “So how do you get back in your body?” I heard Ransom’s tiny voice ask, somewhere far back in my memory.

  It was the year Gran had cut Ransom’s hair at home. His bangs were at a crazy angle as Elias palmed his forehead across the visitation-room table. I was drinking chocolate milk out of a secondhand Lion King sippy cup.

  “I hold my head like this . . .” Elias squeezed and gently jostled my brother’s head until he giggled. “And I say”—Elias dramatically deepened his voice—“Self, go back in!”

  I put my hand on my very real forehead and focused . . .

  This time when I shot upright, water sloshed onto the tile floor. It was cold. I scrambled out of the tub, gripping the wall for support as I grabbed a towel off the rack. Wrapping it around my body, I stepped out onto the floor and grasped the counter to hold myself upright.

  When the dizziness and stars faded, I stared back at myself in the mirror. My chest was heaving, and I was visibly shaking all over. On the counter was my phone. I hesitated before picking it up.

  With a hard swallow, I reached for it.

  Dead. With a crack that covered the screen.

  I swore and slammed it onto the counter so hard a piece of glass skittered across the granite.

  There was a light knock at my bedroom door. “Nyx? You OK in there?”

  Holding the counter for support, two rogue tears dripped from my eyes and splashed between my feet.

  “Nyx?”

  I quickly dried my eyes with the edge of the towel. With a sniff, I walked to the door and opened it.

  The news about Ryder Stone was on the television behind Bess. Her eyes widened as they drifted all the way to my bare knees. “Umm . . . everything okay in here? I heard a crash.”

  “Every—” I cleared my scratchy throat. “Everything’s fine. I just dropped my phone.”

  “Uh oh. Do you have insurance?”

  “Yeah. And I have another phone I can—” I stopped. “Shit. I don’t have my SWAT phone.”

  “Need to borrow mine?” She patted her pockets.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all.” She pulled out a phone and handed it to me. Her screen, too, was shattered.

  My hands trembled as I tapped the screen, and a locked keypad appeared.

  “The password is holla, like Missy Elliott’s version.” Bess cupped her hand around her mouth. “Holla!”

  Cute.

  I tapped in the digits and touched the phone icon. Bess stepped out of view as I dialed my brother’s number. It rang and rang, the
n went to voicemail. Gritting my teeth, I redialed. That time he answered on the first ring. “Hello?”

  “It’s Nyx.”

  “Finally.”

  “Finally? I’ve been calling you all night.”

  “If you weren’t aware, shit’s kinda been crazy at work. Celise came by the hotel on her break. Said I needed to call you. Is everything all right?”

  “Did she say anything else?” I asked.

  “About what?”

  God bless Celise, who understood the right amount of family meddling.

  “Ransom, I think Elias is dead.”

  Silence.

  “Ransom?”

  “How do you know?”

  “He visited me tonight and said the treatments they’re doing aren’t working. He said he’d be dead by morning.”

  “Damn. Guess I’ll be going home and popping some Ambien when I get off work.” He sounded way too excited.

  I frowned. I needed to tell him what had happened in the bathtub, lest he overdose on sedatives trying to detach, but I was keenly aware Bess was hovering right outside the doorway. “Please don’t.” I sat on the edge of my bed and massaged my aching forehead.

  “Are you OK? Celise said you were in the ER.”

  “I’m fine, but I need to see you. Can you come over?”

  “With all the shit that happened tonight, I don’t know when I’ll be done here. The media is already like maggots on a carcass. And isn’t your interview tomorrow . . . err, today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you working this weekend?”

  “I’ll be working overtime if they let me go back to work.”

  Ransom laughed. “What happened? You throat punch someone again?”

  “No, smartass. I was hit by a car after I left the hotel.”

  “Shit. Really?” His voice jumped up an octave.

  “Really.”

  “Are you OK? I’ll leave work right now.”

  Part of me wanted to let him, but Ransom had a hard enough time keeping a job without having to take care of me. And Ransom needed his job. Joint custody of his daughter, Amelia, depended on it. “No. I’m all right and at home now. I’ll see you when you’re off.”