40. Gone Again

40

Gone Again

Dax

Friday, June 9 th

9:15 p.m.

The brain has a funny way of protecting us. Shrouding what we think we see. Making things out of sync.

We become who we think we need to be to survive.

And I'm doing the best I can.

My eyes land on her front door.

Robbing me of logic.

My heart somersaults.

I swallow. Hard.

I pause a brief second to be sure.

It's across the street.

I pull free from the detective's grip and race to her brownstone. "It's not her," I mumble, on the verge of tears.

He hollers after me, but I don't break pace and never turn. I propel in and out of cop cars and onto the sidewalk. I grab the railing, fly around it, and leap onto the first step. I force my feet forward and barrel for her door.

A man in black pants blocks my view. "Come with me," he says, leaning into the doorway.

"No," Brighton says. "I already told you everything I know. Leave me alone."

On one side of the steps, two officers lean against the banister, arms crossed over their chest. When they notice me, they stand, hands held out for me to stop.

The commotion draws the man's attention from Brighton to me, and he turns, their sudden movements catching him off guard.

"What the fuck?" He whips around with one hand on his gun, surprise written across his face.

"Brighton?" I stumble up the last step, righting myself as I stand a few feet from them.

She sidesteps Black Pants and comes tumbling into my arms. As soon as we connect, we collapse to the landing. Sobs rack her body as she trembles against my chest.

"Who's this? What the fuck's going on? Did you let him through?" asks Black Pants.

There's a hand on my shoulder, but I don't acknowledge it. Brighton buries her face in my chest, tears soaking into my shirt. She repeats something I can't make out, and I pull away to see her face.

"Hey, I'm here," I say in a soothing tone as I brush loose hair behind her ear.

She gazes at me through red-rimmed, puffy eyes. She sniffles and wipes her nose. I brush my hand against her splotchy cheek, and she covers her face with her hands. Her shoulders quake, and I wrap my hand around her head to pull her closer.

"Are you okay? Look at me," I order. She doesn't respond. She's not okay, but I'm thankful this whole thing is not what I thought. Relief courses through me, knowing she's safe in my arms.

I guide her to sit on the top step. She follows my direction and leans her head against the railing, wrapping her arms around her middle. I stand and block her with my body, protecting her from everything else.

"What happened?" I direct my question to the three men on her stoop. I try not to come off as defensive, but the way Black Pants postures up to me says I do a piss-poor job.

"We have questions."

"It can't wait?"

Black Pants steps toward me, crossing his arms over his chest. I size him up, comparing the two of us. He's massive. Built like a brick. His broad shoulders and military cut are intimidating, but I don't back down.

"Brighton," he spits through gritted teeth. "This is him." It's not a question, and I'm confused.

She holds her hands between us. "It's fine. He's fine." She uses the banister to pull herself to stand. "Dax," she says, wiping at her tear-stained cheeks. "They're just doing their job."

She shoves past Black Pants and into her house, blocking her doorway with her tiny frame. He holds a hand out to her, but she backs out of his reach.

"I got this. I'll be down in a minute." He motions over his shoulder to the two officers. They take this as their cue to leave and eye me as they walk down the steps.

My paranoia suggests that Brighton and Black Pants' interaction is not a one-off. They know each other.

"Derrick, you can leave now," she says, tears flowing down her face.

I don't know who this guy is, but she's uncomfortable, and I want to be close by if she needs me. She glances at me from the corner of her eye, but Black Pants doesn't take his gaze from her.

He offers his hand and takes a step toward her. "Let me help you. We can go over the accusations—"

She moves out of his reach, headed for me. "I don't want your help. I have nothing to explain." She wraps her arms around herself as he reaches for her, gripping the hem of her shirt.

She yanks free and stiffens.

"Things don't look good. I can help you," he whispers. He drops his head, closing his eyes, unaware I'm watching their interaction. He digs in his back pocket and pulls out a wallet. He extends his hand, presenting a business card.

"I'm not interested." She takes the card and flicks it, wiping the tears from her cheeks. The three of us watch as it flips through the air, landing on her doorstep.

He slowly turns to face me, realizing I'm beside them. He looks deflated, but once our eyes meet, his jaw tightens, his eyes flame to life, and his nostrils flare. "Can I speak to you for a minute?"

Brighton darts out of the doorway, grabbing my hand as I go to follow him. "You don't need to. You don't know anything."

I squeeze her hand and try to convey that everything will be okay. Her eyes grow large, but it's obvious she understands and lets me pull away.

When I reach the sidewalk, I meet up with Black Pants beside an unmarked car. He has his back toward me, his arms crossed over his chest.

As I get closer, he turns.

"Detective Derrick Mercer." I expect him to extend a hand and introduce himself properly, but I get the once over as his eyes travel from my head to my toes. He sneers but makes sure to keep his back facing Brighton. "Can she hear us?"

I glance over his shoulder, finding her at the top step, her teeth worrying her bottom lip as she watches us. "No."

"She's in danger."

"From who?" My heart skips a beat, and I take a step closer to him, unsure if I heard him correctly.

He waves for me to follow him, and I don't hesitate. We make our way to one of the squad cars. He leans over the top of the open passenger door and holds up his fingers. "Three doctors. One suspect." He waits for me to comprehend. "Looks like there's one at the bridge too, but we can't confirm if it's related."

"Does she know?"

"We mentioned it. Told her we need her to take extra precautions. Then you showed up."

I swallow the lump in my throat. I fight to keep my eyes trained on him. I don't want to look at her, make her worry. "What does this have to do with her?"

"We're not sure yet, but we have our suspicions about who is behind this." He gives a cockeyed grin to someone as they pass but continues muttering out of the side of his mouth. "We need more information, but she's stubborn and won't listen."

"And you want me to what?"

He slams a fist against the roof of the squad car. "I'm not blind. I saw how she reacted to you." He sets his jaw, clears his throat, and sniffs. "Watch yourself." He pokes a finger into my chest, and I misstep backward, catching my balance too late. I trip over the curb, my arms and legs splaying in every direction.

"What the hell?" Brighton yells as she rushes down the steps. Her voice draws the attention of numerous officers, and they all hurry over to us to see what's going on. She kneels beside me, pulling me to my feet.

Derrick is slow to come to my aid. He hovers over us, and I never take my eyes off him. There's something under the surface I don't like. And his smirk confirms he feels the same way about me.

Once I'm on my feet, I dust off and charge him. He's not gonna get away with disrespecting me. Everything happens so fast. I barrel into his chest, wrapping my arms around him as we slam into the hood of a cop car.

I take a step back, popping my knuckles as he rights himself, his shoulders tense as he advances on me. Heavy footfalls come from behind me, but my adrenaline surges through my veins, heightening my senses as I zero in on Detective Dickhead. The world around me blurs and time seems to speed up and slow down as I try to anticipate his next move.

Two tiny fists pound against my chest, echoing the rapid beat of blood pulsing through my ears. I'm drawn out of the cacophony as my eyes fall on Brighton's tear-stained face.

"Knock it off. We're not doing this." She wedges between the two of us, holding her hands up to keep us apart. Tears continue to roll down her cheeks as someone yanks the detective a few feet away.

He thrashes and twists, trying to break free from the hold of the man. Seconds tick by as Dickhead convinces the cop he's under control. The two of them join us on the sidewalk.

"I told you I didn't want him involved." Brighton balls her hands into fists as she rounds on the man who brought me back here to identify the body.

"And I told you he was working the case," the man says.

"I'm done, Hudson. Our arrangement is over." She swipes her hands apart and glares at him.

"Everything's under control." Detective Dickhead holds out a hand to keep other officers at a distance as he comes back to the sidewalk, stopping a few feet from us. "Just a little misunderstanding."

"What was that?" Brighton directs the question to Detective Dickhead and tries to get in his face, but Hudson holds her back.

Dickhead cocks the side of his mouth into a partial grin. "Just setting precedence, princess." He chucks her chin and summons the men to follow him. Hudson has to fight to keep a hold of her. Dickhead struts through the cars and across the street, never once looking back over his shoulder. He enters the brownstone with the gurney and disappears inside.

"You son-of-a-bitch." She rounds on Hudson and shoves against his chest.

He lets go.

She whips around to me, her hands cupping my face. "Are you hurt?"

I shake my head. Besides a bruised ego, I'm fine.

"Hey, look at me." She directs my eyes to hers, her fingers guiding my chin as she examines me.

When our eyes meet, I get a look of frustration and anger. I'm not sure if it's toward me or the situation. Water pools at the corners, and tears cascade down her cheeks. She drops her hands to her sides, balling her fists once she confirms I'm not hurt.

Hudson makes eye contact with me and nods in the direction where Detective Dickhead took off, signaling he's available if he's needed.

"It's my fault." Her shoulders fold in, and she hunches over herself, grabbing her chest. The reality of what's happening gets to her, and she cries out. "I should have warned her."

Fragments of thought struggle to come together as I pull her into my chest. "Shhhh. I've got you." I scoop her into my arms. She droops against me and closes her eyes.

"It's her," she mumbles into my chest, repeating herself. "It's her. It's her ."

I climb the stairs, take her into the brownstone, and kick the door closed behind us. I set her on the bottom step and wipe away more tears as I brush her matted hair from her face. "Her who?"

She pulls her hand to her mouth, chewing her fingernails. Now that we're alone, her need to appear strong is wearing off, and she drops her eyes to her feet.

"Tara. I gave her a ride home." The sobs take over her body, and she crumples off the step, onto the landing.

I brush a hand over her hair, sitting beside her before pulling her into my lap and leaning against the door. I wrap my arms around her back, trying to comfort her as I rock side to side. Her sobs eventually turn to whimpers.

"Please don't leave," she murmurs into my shirt, balling it between her fists.

"Baby, I'm not going anywhere," I whisper into her ear as I kiss the top of her head and rest my cheek on it.

The red-and-blue lights flash against the wall beside us, and I stare at them, focusing on her whimpers instead of the sounds from outside. She exhales through stuttering breaths over and over until they even out.

My eyes grow heavy, and I force them open, finding the police lights on the wall once again. The commotion outside keeps me awake until my body's need to sleep overtakes me.

Before I fade and lose consciousness, the grip of her fists on my shirt loosens, and she slumps against my chest.

"I promise."