1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Samuel

I wipe the sweat from my forehead and then clean my hand on my shorts. Between the effort of the exercise my physiotherapist is forcing me through and the pain, I'm like a hand-washed towel put out to dry.

I slowly pull myself up from the bed, making sure I have a solid grip on the edge before placing my feet on the floor and putting my weight on them. When the ground seems stable under them, I carefully let go of the bed. I'm glad when everything is fine, and I don't crash on the floor.

I stand there for a few breaths, making sure a dizzy spell doesn't send me to the floor in a heartbeat. Then I slowly walk towards reception so I can confirm my next appointment. As if I have anything else to do. Until they clear me for work, I spend my time between the hospital and home. I'm grateful I have friends, and that some of them live in my building, otherwise, my lockdown would have been a lonely one.

I pass my hand over my face again, wiping away another towel's worth of sweat, and again dry my hand on my trousers. I wish there was a shower I could use to clean up before leaving.

I greet the lady sitting there and try to get her name from the tag she's wearing, but her long hair is covering it.

"Samuel Walkers."

"Same time next week?"

"Sure, we have a date."

Her fake smile sours my day a tad more.

"Bye," I say before walking away, feeling like a snail. I don't hear her reply, but if she's as happy as me to be here, then even her mood is too joyful.

Why did I park so far away? When I arrived nearly two hours ago, I was fresh and rested. The walk to the physio department had been an easy one. Well, not entirely, but certainly better than now. A pit stop at the coffee shop is going to be a must.

When I'm in this mood, the memories of the accident assault me, and because of how tired I am, I can't fight them away.

"One, two, three . . ." I count my steps under my breath, trying to focus my attention on the here and now, instead of the past and the warehouse.

The pain and the darkness. The chair, and the cuffs on my wrists and ankles. The punches and the kicks. And then flying out of a window.

I pinch my leg to pull myself away from those memories, before my mind can fill with the full weight of the pain I felt when my body hit the pavement.

I'm not there yet, but I'm sure I'll be able to deal with whatever happened to me once I've recovered.

Are you sure?

I push away the self-doubt that's been plaguing me since I was taken. Me, a police officer, a detective, kidnapped without even having the chance to fight back. I would have laughed if it wasn't me. And while I consciously understand I couldn't have done anything differently, my brain insists I should have known. My training should have saved me. Instead, my need to help, my need to save a victim, to save Martin, had clouded my mind.

I'm now paying the price for my stupidity.

The main reception appears before me, and I let out a sigh of relief. The coffee shop is only fifteen steps away. More or less. Yep, I counted them before. I scoff at my need for control making an appearance, even over silly things like this.

While I'm walking by, my attention is captured by a young man of similar build to mine—just over six-foot-tall, with short light brown hair. But that's not what gets my attention. It's the tension and sadness surrounding him like a cloak, and making my need-to-save behaviour rear its head immediately.

The sigh of annoyance from the receptionist sets off my alarm bells. I stop and watch to see what happens. I'm close enough to hear what they're saying, so if an intervention is needed, I'm here.

I look down at my less-than-responsive legs and scoff, humourlessly, annoyed by the situation I'm in. I'll be of no use, but I'll intervene anyway.

Lots of common courtesies, and then the guy is pleading for info he's never going to get. These people must take courses on how to avoid giving a proper answer. Their tone goes down, and I can no longer follow the conversation.

I watch the exchange, and when it ends, the guy leaves, even more dejected than before. He doesn't look where he's going, and bumps into me. I was too slow to move away, and with his eyes full of tears, he couldn't really see me there.

I shoot my hands out to support him, and I nearly fall on my ass, but with a surge of willpower—which I'll be paying for later—and a lot of pain, I manage to keep the both of us on our feet.

"Are you okay?" I ask him while trying to put some space between us. But I stop when his answer bloody confuses me.

My instinct takes over when he leans on me, unaware of how his weight affects me, but I wrap my arms around him because I still need to help.

"I need him. I need to say goodbye," the guy murmurs, still in my arms.

I'm bloody sorry for him. I, for sure, know how badly the desire to go back to a particular moment of your life can hit you in the face like a loud slap.

There are moments in my life I want to go back to, so they can have a different outcome. But my fixation, my desire, and my prayer to relive those moments nearly cost me my life—and those of others. Realising that was the kick in the ass I needed, to decide whether to stay on the police force and do my job or to walk away and spend the rest of my life feeling guilty, wasting every single breath I could still take, all while regretting my actions. Never living life to the fullest because of the sacrifices others made.

My words are out of my mouth before I can think better of it.

"I can help you with that," I say, and then I want to bite my tongue. But once the words are out, it's too late to take them back. The light of hope in his eyes kills any part of me that wants to eat those words and swallow them before they're out.

What the fuck am I helping him with? Breaking the law. The same law I swore to protect.

Is it too late to take a step back? To go back to the things that are wrong in my own life, instead of trying to amend what doesn't work in others'?

When I find myself with arms full of warm muscles, and long limbs all around me, I'm sure the answer is yes.

Maybe I can heal as well.

I push that thought away. There is no cure, or salvation, for causing someone else's death.

No cure.

No salvation.