After finishing with Jackson, I sit in my car, hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. I don't want to go home, not with what is waiting for me. Even though I still have no idea what happened, I can't stand the thought of being in that apartment questioning if I had done something.
But I don't want to go to work either. My eyes flicker to the clock on the radio. It's just after noon. I bet wherever my phone is, it's probably ringing off the hook. I'll most likely get an earful from Stringer and my partner. Do I have any other choice though? Shit. There's a likelihood that Drake is on his way to kick down my door right now.
I put the car in gear and get back on the highway, heading for the precinct.
There's no demon inside of me, I try to convince myself. I'm just imagining things.
And yet, I can't help but let the thought creep into the back of my mind, planting seeds of doubt.
When I pull into the parking lot, I roll the car into my usual spot. But after turning the engine off, I can't bring myself to get out. I tap my foot anxiously, wondering if what's inside is worse than my interview with Jackson. It can't be, right?
Swearing to myself, I throw the door open and my feet hit the pavement. Even as I walk along the side of the building, the officers outside stare at me. I push my sunglasses up onto my head and give them a look back. What do you want!? As soon as I do, they glance away. That's what I thought.
I head inside, and almost as soon as I enter my unit, people start to whisper. And when they start whispering, I hear a chair skid across the floor and footsteps pound in my direction. I glance up to see Drake rushing over.
"Hey!" He throws his hands up. "What the hell happened yesterday?"
I shake my head. "I don't —"
"I've been trying to get a hold of you," he says a bit quieter once he's standing a couple of feet in front of me. I can see the worry etched on his face, embroidered in his eyebrows.
"Yeah," I itch at back of my neck. "I lost my phone last night."
He waves that off. "Where were you? Where did you go?"
I bite the corner of my lip, thinking about spitting out some excuse, but I quickly change my mind. Instead, I give him a slight smile. "Wow, you were really worried about me, huh?"
A slight blush makes its way up to his cheeks. He doesn't respond, but he gives me a look only I can decipher. The key is the spark in his eye and the curve of his lips.
No, Drake. I take a deep breath to center myself. "Don't go there," I whisper. "You can't go there."
For a second, it looks like he's going to reply to that. I beg him with my eyes to not. I know how it will end if he does. If it weren't for the shit day I've had, I probably would've shut it down anyway, but now is especially terrible timing.
I don't know if he listens to my silent plea or if he decides to change his tune on his own, but he straightens his face. "But seriously," he says lowly. "Where the hell were you?"
I glance away. I can't do this. My eyes shift over his shoulder where I see Stringer at the board. "I should probably go check-in," I say, pointing over. Drake looks back and when he refocuses his attention onto me, his mouth is open like he's about to retort. "Come on," I say before he can, pushing him in Stringer's direction.
He doesn't fight me. He turns around and walks on his own. He even walks a little faster than necessary. But that's just fine. I'd rather him be pissed than find out what I may or may not have done last night. He'd never look at me the same again.
When Stringer notices me, his eyes narrow. "Lynne," he says, and I hold my breath, expecting to be scolded. "I want you and Barlow to head out to the hospital ASAP. Aaron Jackson's surviving victim is up for visitors. Go see if she's willing to speak with you about that night."
I exhale. "Alright," I nod and turn to Drake. He doesn't meet my gaze. Instead, he walks past me and heads for the door. I don't know why, but his cold shoulder burns worse than any other.
Maybe I'm just a pessimist, but I also can't stand hospitals. The smell, the lighting. It's just awful. Of course, waking up in one and vomiting over the sterile floors is horrible, so perhaps I'm biased.
But I've also seen plenty of people recover in them during my career as a cop. It's one of the highlights and most meaningful moments of my time working for the NYPD. And Meg Forsyth is no exception.
As the doctor leads us to her room, she explains how much of a fighter Meg is, and that she's on her way to a complete recovery. Part of me wonders if we had been just a few minutes late on the scene, she might not even be here today.
In the entryway of Meg's room, the doctor knocks on the open door. "Meg?" She calls out. "You have visitors."
The red-headed girl looks up at us from her bed. She gives a weak smile. I notice the cuts on her skin in the light, and her left arm is in a cast. She also has a few largely wrapped bandages here and there.
"Hi, Meg," I say. "I'm Detective Lynne, and this is Detective Barlow. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions?"
She sadly glances down at the cast and she scratches at it with her other hand. "About the attack?" She asks, and I nod. "I guess."
"Thank you," I find a free chair near her bed and sit while Drake hovers near the door. "How are you feeling?"
Meg sighs. "I'm okay. My arm hurts like hell."
I give her a bittersweet smile. That question was the easiest one, and it only gets worse from here. "Can you please tell us what happened the night you were abducted?" I ask cautiously. When she visibly stiffens, I reach out to her. "I wouldn't ask if it weren't important, but it is. It would help us a lot if you're willing."
She takes a shaky breath before nodding vigorously. "Okay." She takes a series of deep breaths before meeting my eyes. "I'm a paralegal. Sometimes I stay late — later than I probably should," she adds with a soft chuckle. "So, that's what I did. My boss asked if I would help with the filing, so I said yes. I was one of the last people in the building. When I was leaving, I bumped into this guy in the lobby. I think he was on his way upstairs. I apologized but he only stared back at me. His face..." Her eyes ebb like she's stuck in that memory.
"I recognized him," She whispers. "We had helped him with a work-related injury settlement. But he looked different. He looked...deranged. I got away from him and went over to Edy, the security officer. I pointed the guy out and told Edy he creeped me out. Edy asked if I wanted him to walk me to my car but I said no." Tears fall onto her cheeks when she blinks. "Maybe if I said yes..."
"If you said yes, Edy might be dead," I tell her, although perhaps I shouldn't have. She looks at me in shock, but after a moment, she nods solemnly.
"Anyway," she mutters, brushing her hair behind her ear. "I went outside, thinking the guy would be in the elevator or Edy would take care of it. But when I got to my car, I felt..." She sucks in air, her voice wavering. "I felt his arm around my throat. His grip was so tight, I couldn't breathe. I think I dropped my keys — I've been thinking about how I could've used them to fight back." She shudders. "I felt his breath on my face — it was hot and smelled horrible. He told me if I screamed, he'd gut me right there. Then he dragged me into his car."
I glance back at Drake, who shakes his head in disbelief. I reach out to her again. "You did good, Meg. Now, can you tell me what happened when you got to the house?"
She closes her eyes and throws her head back against the pillow behind her. "It was so dark. He was dragging me by the arm, and I kept tripping. When he got to the stairs, I thought he was going to throw me down them, but he carried me...like a bride." Her face goes a little green. "When I saw the candles and markings, I knew I was going to die, but I didn't want to. He tried to tie me up but I fought back." Meg sobs and cradles her arm. "He broke my arm. And the more I cried and moved, the more he cut me.
"And then," she pauses, taking a moment to swallow. "When I would stop crying, I would hear him talking — no, whispering. Chanting, too. I thought he was talking to me, but he wasn't. It was like he was talking to someone else."
I lean forward. "What was he saying?"
She shakes her head. "Most of it was too quiet, but I think he was saying stuff like, 'Will you let me go?' And 'She's the one.'" Her gaze catches mine. "I also heard another voice. But no one else was there."
"Did he have someone on the phone?" Drake asks from behind me.
"No," she says with a head shake. "I don't think so." She looks back at me, tears welling up in her eyes again. "I thought I was going to die that night, but thanks to you —" Her voice catches. "—I didn't."
I give her a reassuring smile. "I was only doing my job,"
"But it isn't an easy thing to kill someone."
What? My shoulders tense and I look at her wondering if I heard her correctly. My mind immediately flips back to last night. How would she know? "W-What do you mean?"
Meg furrows her brow, looking almost as confused as I feel. "The man who kidnapped me. You killed him."
"Oh," Shit. "No, Meg, he isn't dead."
Instantly, her demeanor shifts. Her chest expands as her breathing increases. Her eyes flash over the room like she's trying to catch onto something.
Drake steps towards her, trying to reach out to calm her.
"He's going to find me," Meg says while hyperventilating. "He's going to find me and kill me."
"Meg, you don't have to worry," I say quickly. "He's in jail and won't be getting out."
But it doesn't help. Meg starts to flail, her eyes rolling into the back of her head, her limbs thrashing. She doesn't scream or cry, but tears silently pour down her cheeks. The monitors she's hooked up to begin to beep and screech, and nurses burst into the room. Two hurry to her bedside and one stands in front of Drake and me.
"You two need to leave, now."
Drake puts his hand on my back and starts to guide me out, but I can't help but look back at Meg. I wonder how much better off she'd be if I had killed Jackson that night. I just hope that she'll be alright in the end.
Total word count (as of end of chapter 7): 15,383