My head’s killing me.
There’s a sour taste in my mouth, and my tongue feels ten times its normal size, dry and puffy. I groan, pulling the blanket over my head. Just five more minutes. Please.
But my stomach has other ideas. It rolls and churns, a warning I can’t ignore. Shit.
I bolt upright, tangled in sheets. The room spins, but there’s no time to steady myself. Stumbling, I lurch toward the bathroom. My feet catch on something and I nearly face-plant, but somehow make it in time.
The toilet’s cold porcelain greets me as I heave. Bile burns my throat. Eyes watering, I grip the seat. Another wave hits. I retch until there’s nothing left.
Gasping, I slump against the wall. My arms feel sticky. Weird. I blink, trying to focus in the dim light.
What the—
Red streaks my skin, dry and caked in some spots, glistening in others. Blood? My heart pounds. Shaking, I check myself over for wounds. Nothing. Where did it come from?
The smell hits me then: Thick. Metallic. Revolting.
My stomach rebels again. I barely make it back to the toilet.
When I’m done, I sit back. Everything’s spinning. Shadows cling to the corners. Only a hint of gray light peeks through the curtains.
I need to clean up. Figure out what’s going on.
Using the sink for support, I haul myself up. My reflection’s a mess. Bloodshot eyes. Tangled hair. And all that blood... It’s everywhere. My face. Chest. Everywhere I can see.
What the fuck?
Shuffling back to the bedroom, inane thoughts run through my head. I have to change the sheets. They’re probably ruined. Is there a spare pair in the closet, or did I forget to run to the laundromat?
I think I forgot. Guess I know what I’m doing today.
Oh. But I should probably get to the hospital and check myself over. There’s no particular pain in my body, but the blood had to come from somewhere.
My fingers close around fabric as I yank my comforter off my bed.
The blanket slides away, revealing—
No.
Oh, fuck.
No.
You’ve got to be kidding me.
Scott’s sprawled across my bed.
Naked.
Eyes open—glassy. Empty.
There’s so much blood. So much. I can see it all, even in this dim light.
My legs give out and I hit the floor hard. Can’t breathe. Can’t think.
Scott’s dead.
In my bed.
What the fuck.
What the actual fuck.
What happened?!
Last night’s fuzzy. Fragmented. I remember texting him to get his stuff. After that... nothing.
Did I do this?
No. Impossible. I wouldn’t. Couldn’t.
But the blood on my arms...
Bile rises again. I swallow hard.
Think, Nicole. Think.
Call the police? No. With my history with Scott, I’d be the prime suspect. And the blood...
I need help. But who?
Penelope. She’d know what to do.
My phone. Where’s my damn phone?
On the nightstand, where it always is. The sight of my blood across the screen as my stomach lurching again, as if the smell in here isn’t bad enough.
I force myself to move. One step. Another. Don’t look at him. Just grab the phone.
My fingers close around it and I back away. Fast.
"Come on, Pen. Pick up."
One ring. Two. Three.
"Nicole? It’s ass o’clock in the morning. This better be good."
Words tumble out. "Scott’s dead. In my bed. There’s blood everywhere. I don’t know what happened. I can’t—"
"Whoa, slow down." The sleepiness in her voice disappears. "Scott’s what?"
"Dead." My voice cracks. "I woke up and he was just... there. I don’t remember anything. I don’t think I—but there’s blood everywhere, Pippa. Everywhere."
Silence. Then, "Shit. Okay. Don’t touch anything. I’m on my way."
The line goes dead.
I need to call the police. I have to. There’s a dead man in my bed; that’s the proper thing to do.
They’re going to suspect me, but I can’t just not call. That’s a dead body. In my apartment.
Fuck.
Fuck!
Breathe, breathe, breathe. In with the nose. Out through the mouth.
Don’t panic.
Focus on the facts. Scott’s dead. I’m covered in blood. No memory of how it happened.
God, I’m so screwed.
Wait. The apartment. There might be evidence. Clues.
I need to look. To understand—
No. Penelope said not to touch anything. This is a crime scene.
Bile rises as I force myself to really look at Scott. The man I was going to marry just one short week ago.
He has wounds everywhere. Whatever happened, it wasn’t pretty. Supernatural? It has to be, right? But why? And why am I alive? Why here, at my place?
A sound escapes me. Half-laugh, half-sob.
I’m actually trying to solve my ex-fiancé’s murder. While covered in his blood.
This can’t be real.
A knock at the door jolts me back to reality.
"Nicole? It’s me. Open up."
Penelope. Thank God.
I rush to let her in, forgetting my appearance until I see her eyes widen.
"Holy shit. You weren’t kidding about the blood."
She pushes past me, shutting the door, and gags a little at the smell. After a second of shallow breathing, she motions she’s okay. "Okay, what’s going on here?"
I try to explain, but it all comes out jumbled. Fragmented. My brain isn’t right; it’s circling around the dead body in my bed.
Penelope listens, her face grim. When I finish, she takes a deep breath.
"Alright. First things first. Have you called the police?"
"No, I—they’re going to think I did it."
"You’re going to look even more guilty because you didn’t call. Hurry up and call them. We can’t touch anything. I’ll call, you come out in the hall with me."
"The blood—"
"We don’t want to contaminate the crime scene any more than it is. Come on, Nikki." She’s already got her phone out, dialing as she shoves me out the door.
The sound of it slamming closed has me flinching. Penelope’s already telling the dispatcher the address, and I leave it all to her, falling to the floor and pressing my head against my knees.
What the hell is happening around me?