The world returned in a muddle of voices. When Taylor pried her eyes open, a glare of light and two blurry forms hovered over her. A pounding had taken up residence in her head. Scowling, she tried to reach up to touch her forehead, but her arm felt weak and she didn't make it.
"Taylor."
For the first time, her name sounded clear. Blinking, the figures took on solidity. Beside Clint was a girl who looked about in her late twenties and could have been Clint's twin if not for the age difference. Her auburn hair was tied back and her chocolate eyes were the same shade as his.
"Taylor, can you hear me?" Clint asked.
When she gave a tired nod, the tension in his face softened and he let out a breath. Taylor attempted to push herself up, but Clint rested a hand on her shoulder.
"Take it easy," he said. "You don't want to pass out again."
Taking his advice, she laid her head back, feeling how very heavy every inch of her felt. After a minute, she twisted her head to him.
"Want to sit up?" he asked.
She nodded and he slid a hand under her shoulder blades, easing her into a sitting position. The thrumming in her skull continued and she winced, pressing her palm against her temple.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
Taylor closed her eyes, trying to push away the beating. The mirror was cool against her back and she leaned into it, accepting all of its support.
"Head hurts. Tired," she said.
When she opened her eyes, Clint's forehead was pinched with concern. He gestured to the girl beside him.
"Taylor this is my oldest sister, Naomi. She's a nurse. Is it okay if she looks you over, makes sure there's not a concussion?"
"Sure," Taylor said, resting her head back.
As Naomi shifted to sit in front of Taylor, she nudged Clint. "Get a cup of water."
Clint rose as Naomi gave a preliminary scan of Taylor. Her movements were a strange blend of efficient and caring, a side effect of her career.
"Can you tell me the last time you ate?" she asked, checking Taylor's pulse.
Trying to think around the pulsing in her brain, Taylor retraced the day, finding each allotted time for meals empty.
"I think it was a bag of chips at 2 am," she said.
Naomi's eyes crinkled in a smile as understanding dawned on her. She sank back on her ankles.
"And the last time you drank water?"
Taylor made a face, racking her brain. "Coffee this morning."
Settling down beside his sister, Clint exchanged a look with her. When he handed Taylor the paper cup, his expression was controlled.
"Drink this, it will help with the headache."
With a murmur of thanks, Taylor took it and sipped at the water. It was only then that she felt her body craving the liquid. She downed all of the cup's contents.
"Get her more water," she said, then looked at Taylor. "I will be right back with Gatorade and something for you to eat. I believe you passed out from a mix of dehydration and low blood sugar. Stay with her, Clint."
Clint retrieved another cup of water for Taylor as Naomi left. With the second cup of water, Taylor felt the pounding in her head receding. Before she had a chance to ask for another, Clint was pushing himself up and moving to get one. He came back right as the door opened again and Naomi walked in.
"Here you go," she said, handing Taylor a bottle of Gatorade and two power bars. "The Gatorade will help your electrolytes and the power bars are crammed with all the protein your body needs right now. Eat slowly though, it will help your stomach process it better. Also, I have this for you." She held out a small, glass container. Hesitantly, Taylor took it. "It's for your bruise. It will help speed up the healing."
Taylor raised the items in a vague sign of gratitude.
"Thanks," she said.
"Of course. I have to get back, someone needs my help but if you hit any other bumps have Clint call me."
"Thanks," Taylor repeated.
When Naomi left, Taylor opened one of the power bar wrappers and took a bite. She sank further against the mirrors, taking another. Clint watched her, the worry in his brow still prevalent. As Taylor moved onto the Gatorade, Clint rolled his shoulders and cleared his throat. Taylor froze, her hand halfway to her mouth.
"Look," Clint said, his eyes darting around the room before landing on her. "I want to help you, but I don't do things halfway. If I'm going to teach you to defend yourself, I'm going to do it right, that means basics and strengthening exercises before getting into the intense stuff."
Taylor lowered her hand, her recovering head trying to decipher what he was getting out.
"I understand if that is too much for you and you would rather find someone else to help you learn how to throw a punch."
A bit puzzled, Taylor frowned at him, head cocked.
"Are you asking me whether I want to keep training or not?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Yeah, I do."
Clint's shoulders relaxed, but his face didn't discard the crease of concern.
"Okay, I have to ask you something that might be too personal but I need to know cause I can't train you if I don't know, but...do you struggle with an eating disorder?"
Taylor's eyebrows shot up. "No. Why?"
Despite her answer, Clint remained skeptical. "Because an eating disorder can do a lot of damage to your body. If you tried to do training on top of not taking care of yourself then your body would eventually shut down on you and I can't aid you while knowing it would actually be harming you."
"Oh."
Clint leaned forward, his elbows balanced on his crossed legs.
"I understand that it's easy to think one small thing won't matter, but it does in the long run. It's important that you take care of yourself and your body."
Despite herself, Taylor's eyes darted to the empty spot on the wall where plaques from that year would have gone. Her mind turned over his words and the curious blank section. Clint ran a hand through his hair, easing back as if he were aware of what she was thinking.
"So," he said, drawing her focus back. "In order for us to continue, I need to set down another set of ground rules. You will eat three times day and you will tell me what you ate so that I know you're actually doing it. You will also drink half a gallon of water. This is the minimum you need to do to keep training with me and I won't back down on this. Is that understood?"
"Yeah. Usually, I do eat just today..."
Taylor thought about breakfast, remembering wanting to avoid questions from her parents and lunch she had been too tired. She shook her head, dispersing the thoughts.
"I promise. Do you usually give all your trainees this command?"
"Yes. It's essential that they are taking care of themselves. I normally have them texting me what they eat. But since you're not paying me, I'll hold off on that for now. I have a question for you, there was a point in the session when you felt yourself getting too tired, wasn't there?"
Guilt colored Taylor's cheeks, knowing there had been about a dozen points. Seeing the obvious conviction, Clint frowned.
"You should have told me. That was one of the guidelines." He let out a low growl in the back of his throat. "I'm serious about this, Taylor, I can't help you if you're going to hurt yourself."
The question as to whether training with him was really worth this, raced through Taylor's head.
"I know I'm intense, but I can not have someone I'm training put themselves in danger, that is why the guidelines are there. You can choose to keep training with me, but I will hold you to my rules and guidelines."
"Got it."
Having said all he wanted to, Clint rose and held out his hands to her. Gratefully, she accepted his assistance. Even when she was standing, he held onto her, waiting to see where her strength was at.
"I'm fine," she said.
Still, Clint watched her with caution as she tugged on her shoes and picked up the jar of cream. Slinging on her backpack, Clint opened the door and the pair headed out. The rhythm of conversations had been added to the riot of gym noise, the numbers doubling since Taylor had arrived.
"Do you need a ride home?" Clint asked, making Taylor pause at the entrance.
One hand on the door handle, she turned back to him. A bubble of amusement rose in her throat but she pushed it back down.
"I'm good."
Clint scratched the back of his neck, seeming to be working to contain his thoughts. After a second, he nodded.
"Okay. I'll see you at school."
"Sounds good." She held up the jar in a farewell salute. "Thanks for today."
The air was chilly, evening creeping in. As the door swung shut behind her, she glanced back. Clint moved to the receptionist desk and leaned on the counter, chatting with Tori. His posture was relaxed, and it was as if the concerned, stern person from a moment before had never existed.
Rounding the building to find a moment of seclusion, Taylor found her mind drifting over the last hour. For the first time in a long time, she was interested in knowing more about someone else's life.
******
The office that materialized around Taylor was a decent size with three walls of windows, two of them facing into the center of the police station. The wall with windows facing outside was almost completely blocked by a cork board with photos of crime scenes pinned to it.
Sitting on the desk was a burger with a haystack of fries - which accounted for the grilled onions smell - and a screen showcasing a front page news story with the headline Gaza Drug Cartel Convicted.
The room had only one occupant, a man in his early thirties. He had golden dark skin, a serious countenance, and tight curly black hair. Beneath his hoodie, overlaid by a leather jacket, it was easy to make out his strong build.
The detective stood before the evidence board. It was covered with photos of the Fitzpatrick crime family with added photos of last night's fire. Across the right side was a print out of the courthouse building.
"What?" Detective Weston said, without turning around. "No statement about my eating habits?"
For a second Taylor wondered if she had made a sound, but then she caught the sight of a mirror placed on a filing cabinet and angled towards her darkened corner.
"Not tonight," she said.
At the tired tone in her voice, Detective Weston spun around.
"Something on your mind?"
"Simply the problems of life."
"Ah." He reached out and lifted a coffee cup to his lips, eyeing her over the rim. "Work? College getting to be too much?"
Taylor narrowed her eyes at him. "You're digging."
"Force of habit." He picked up a second cup and held it out to her. "I figured you might need this after the long night last night. I don't know what you like so I got it like mine."
The gift drew Taylor out of her seclusion.
"Thanks."
She sipped, the strong bitter liquid flavored with vanilla and cinnamon.
"I figured it was the least I could do. You saved more than thirty people and no one will ever know it's you they should thank."
The number surprised Taylor. Though the previous night's events were a bit sluggish, she hadn't remembered it being so many. Putting that puzzle off for another day's consideration, she raised the cup.
"Thanks." She took another drink, grateful for the simulate. "Just so you know I'm not going to leave the cup so you can take my DNA, in case the thought had crossed your mind."
Weston's smile confirmed that it had. "I wouldn't dream of it."
"Vincent caused the fire last night," Taylor said.
"I know. Remember our unlucky paper pusher that was mugged last week?" he asked.
"Yeah, what about him?"
"It appears his mugging wasn't as random as I first believed. Last night his stolen keycard was used at the back entrance to the courthouse."
Taylor took a step closer to the board. Whether the twist in the case or the caffeine, she was more alert than before.
"So Vincent stole his keycard in order to set the fire. Do you know why?"
"With the fire destroying so much, it's going to be hard to tell what they were after."
Taylor passed behind Weston and surveyed the building print out. "Do we know what floor they attacked?"
Weston took a step closer to Taylor, brow creased. "That's the strangest part of this, it was the records floor."
Confused, Taylor looked up at him, his broad frame dwarfing her.
"What could be so important that they would break into the records floor and then set a fire to destroy the evidence of what was taken?"
Weston shook his head slowly. "That's what we need to figure out." He gave a heavy sigh. "I don't know why but it leads me to believe it's connected to the Gaza Cartel being brought down."
"Why do you think that?"
Weston placed his laced fingers on top of his head. "Because now there is an opening. When one crime group falls another comes to claim its place."
Despite his young age, the detective had a crease in his forehead that was too deep. Years of making quick work of rising through the ranks and seeing the darker side of life on a daily basis were taking its toll.
"Why do this then? If it's never going to end?" Taylor asked.
Strength and sadness flickered in the Detective eyes. "Because God gave me a heart to protect His people."
Taylor gazed over the photos of destruction, her heart heavy.
"How do you never doubt God when you see all the bad in the world?"
Weston let out a heavy sigh. "You know I find it funny that everyone is quick to blame God for the bad in the world, but never give him the credit for the good." He glanced at her. "When I walk onto a crime scene, you know what I see? I see harm and pain done by the hands of humans. But when I feel the rain, the sun, the wind or see a sunset, I don't see humans."
"But God still let's the bad happen."
Weston ran a hand over his hair. "And that's something I will never understand, God decided to give people free will. Not sure I would have done that if I was in His place. But I choose to use my free will to help people."
At his words, Taylor pictured her aunt, her wide smile, messy curls, and soft caramel eyes.
"What about you, Shadow?"
"That's a completely stupid name."
He gave her a wry smile. "Does that mean you don't have an answer?"
Taylor didn't reply. How could she, his answer striking a similar chord in her. When her response didn't come right away, Weston eyed her. Even with the hood that covered half her face and left the rest in shadow, Taylor always had this gut fear that Weston would see more of her than she wanted him to.
Still, he never had and she would keep it that way.
"Same as you," she said. "I want to help people."
Detective Weston nodded and looked back at the board.
"I'm glad, it means you're going to help me solve this case. Because I have a feeling the Fitzpatricks are up to something and I want to find out what it is and stop it."
**********************************************************************
"I am the vengeance, I am the night, I am BATMAN!"
(Haha all I can think about with this line is The Superhero Cafe from the Youtube channel How It Should Have Ended and how Batman is always saying, Because I'm BATMAN! So great!)
Okay! Sunshine Girl here and ready to receive whatever you got! Thoughts, questions, comments, queries, pondering, wonderings, wanderings, I'll listen to them all! 🦸🏼♂️🦹🏼🦸🏾
Random-not-sure-it-makes-sense-but-can't-really-stop-me Time! My family has suicidal butter. That sounds more dramatic than it is. There is a ledge in the door of our fridge where the sticks of butter sit. When we open the door, the butter makes a break for freedom and falls from the ledge onto the floor.
Like I said, it's suicidal butter. Or maybe it's secretly trying to be a superhero and thinks it can fly. Honestly, we'll never know cause who can really comprehend the thoughts of butter? I know I can't and that's saying something because we all know I'm the oddest noodle out there! (a bow tie noodle if you're curious)
With that said is there a question you want to know my answer to?
Remember, I'm odd so the answer might surprise you, doesn't matter what the question is, I'm just saying, it could be surprising.
Vote, comment, follow but only if you seek to protect those who can't protect themselves!