8. Scarlett
EIGHT
SCARLETT
Something buzzes close to my ear, and it has me groaning as I swipe at the thick, heavy mass attempting to suffocate me.
I try to pry my lashes apart, only to realize with a harsh cry that my mascara is stuck together, causing my eyes to water.
"Fuuuccckkk," I whimper. My tongue feels thick, coated in something metallic and stale, as though I've slept with pennies beneath it, and I'm pretty sure I have drool sliding down my face. Gross.
I force my body up onto my elbows, feeling sharp protests from my back and neck, as the dull light stabbing through my still partially-sealed eyelids makes everything spin.
What the hell happened to me? I'm groggy and out of sorts, as if I just woke from a deep, restless sleep, or drank too much, but I never touch alcohol.
The disorienting sensations churn my stomach as a rising wave of anxiety pulls me further into unsettling confusion.
I finally pry my eyelids apart to find where the annoying sound is coming from, as I reach to grab my vibrating phone off the bedside table next to me.
I stare at the screen with a mixture of alarm and trepidation as Jasper's name flashes across.
"Hello?" I say, voice hoarse and uncertain.
Have I lost my damn mind now? I clear my scratchy throat and try again, "Agent Lyssa. "
"Where the fuck have you been, Lyssa?! I've been calling you for almost an hour, we have another fucking crispy body!
" Jasper's gruff, irate voice penetrates through the rest of the fog, and instantly has me on alert.
I immediately dart into a standing position, almost meeting the floor in my haste, and already looking for where my badge and gun are.
One look down my body's length shows me that I'm wearing nothing but my panties, bra, and one sock. What. The. Hell.
"Lyssa, are you even fucking listening to me?
" Jasper shouts through the receiver, and I have to pry it away from my ear to avoid blowing out my eardrum.
"This one's just as bad as the others, same M.O.
, but this victim had connections. There's a shit storm of reporters already down here, and the director and the mayor are both on their way. Get the fuck down here now!"
"I'm on my way..." My eyes roam my bedroom in panic as I stumble forward, grasping for the discarded clothes scattered all over it, in disbelief at the disorderly scene before me. I lift the black shirt to my nose and groan at the scent of sweat, deodorant, and the faint aroma of smoke.
My eyes narrow on a spot on the cuff, slightly darker than the black fabric itself, looking like a heavy, sodden shadow absorbing the ambient light.
Slowly, I turn the cuff toward the sunlight glaring through my bedroom window to get a better look, as I squint and attempt to ignore how dry my eyes are.
I press my fingers to the material, sticky, cold, but half-dried. What the hell is that?
Blood, my mind calmly supplies. I rapidly pull them away from the material as if I've been singed by the substance, my breath whooshing out of my lungs when they come away stained dark red. I drop the phone, and it skids across the floor with a bang as I freeze.
Don't contaminate the evidence, whips through my mind.
Evidence? Is my bedroom now a crime scene?
The mere thought is incredibly chilling and disturbing.
My gaze remains glued to the ridges of my fingerprints.
Everything seems to come to a halt. The air.
The sound. Nothing exists except the blood slowly drying on my skin.
Was I drugged and raped? The thought blares through my mind like a cannon determined on destruction. It's every woman's worst nightmare, and I'm not immune to it. I quickly do a self-assessment, checking if I can feel if anything has penetrated me.
Other than my body feeling tired, disoriented, and queasy, nothing else seems to be amiss.
I try to shake off the sudden chill assailing my skin, as a sudden pain shoots through my skull that has my legs trembling and threatening to buckle.
The shirt slides to the floor before a wave of nausea attacks me so strongly that I have to force myself to rush unsteadily toward my ensuite.
I barely make it before the contents of my stomach void themselves.
When I can manage to lift my head, without my internal organs demanding to make an appearance, I drag the back of my hand across my sour mouth.
My mind whirls with possible explanations for my state, and the stain on my clothing.
Maybe I had an allergic reaction to something I ate and hurt myself?
I stare down at my bare limbs but see no evidence of a cut anywhere.
Maybe it wasn't blood, could it be a red food or fuck...
I don't know, anything but fucking blood?
The panic starts deep in my stomach, threatening to have me doubled over the toilet again, but I know I have nothing left to spew.
Think, Scarlett, assess the evidence you see before you. There are clothes scattered everywhere, so unlike you, you're always neat and tidy. Your phone was on the nightstand where you usually leave it, but it wasn't plugged in. You're disciplined, you don't forget to do things like that.
I quickly stare at the watch on my wrist and realize what time it is.
At least nine hours are unaccounted for.
The metallic taste, the fresh blood on your clothes, and the smell of smoke.
"Stop, you're building a victimology on yourself," I growl with annoyance, but I can't shake the uneasy feeling rapidly encompassing me.
"I'll deal with it after I've been to the crime scene. I'll... I'll get a rape... kit... It'll be fine." My voice sounds uncertain, small, and weak to my ears. Just the thought of putting myself in that vulnerable position has everything in me wanting to flee.
I force myself to steady my shaky legs and stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, turning the faucet and letting cold water cascade.
Dark smudges of yesterday's mascara stain my eyes, and make me look like a deranged raccoon. My long, thick hair is a rat’s nest, and my skin looks almost translucent, and green-tinged, as the reflection meets my gaze.
Another panicked thought quickly replaces the last. "What if... I did... something?"
"Fuck, this is bad." I drag my trembling fingers down my face, washing off as much of last night as I can, as fear at what might have happened to me races through my limbs.
My thoughts offer random possibilities as I try to calm my galloping heart.
The sound of my blood rushing in my ears is so loud that it drowns out all other sounds, until it feels like I'm wrapped in a goddamn vacuum.
My chest tightens as if someone is squeezing it, inch by painful inch, and my vision threatens to go white as I grasp for the sink's edge, the cold water running over my fingers and washing away the stain.
"No... not... now." I don't have time for a fucking panic attack.
I need to think logically. There would be evidence left if I did something.
I race out of the room and lunge for my gun, finding it discarded on a dresser next to my badge.
I check the magazine, and release a heavy breath as I realize it's full, and there's one in the chamber.
Good. Next, I get down on my hands and knees and search for my phone, which somehow made its way underneath my nightstand.
My fingers tremble as I unlock it and go to my maps.
The location history has been disabled. What. The Fuck. Who disabled it?
Before I can unravel, Jasper's words manage to break through the darkness that is quickly threatening to envelop me. Another body, this one of someone important. I have to get my shit together and get down to the crime scene. Ashmaker has struck again, and he might have left another clue for me.
What if he did this to me? What if he somehow was able to get to me and drug me, and that's why I'm in this state?
The thought flickers in my mind, but immediately sounds ludicrous to me, and I quickly dismiss it, but the seed of doubt lingers.
I drag myself into my closet, quickly pulling clothes off hangers and dressing frantically.
I take one last glance in the mirror, and what greets me back has a sense of failure and dismay washing over me.
Great, I look exactly like I feel, like death warmed over.
As I get into my vehicle, I realize I've put on sneakers instead of my confident heels. I almost hesitate, get back out to change, and then decide, fuck it, it will cause a stir, and maybe they'll talk about that instead of my hungover appearance.
What have you left for me this time, Ashmaker, and will it bring me closer to finding you?
Just as I'm about to pull away, a thought rips through my mind: you can't drive. What if whatever knocked you out is still in your system, and you kill someone heading to the crime scene? I slam my hands against the steering wheel, rage overtaking me. "FUCKING HELL!"
I wrap my fingers tightly around the wheel until they're bloodless, as I try to get myself under control.
The thought is a valid possibility, and I can't chance it.
What the hell am I going to do now? I can't very well show up to a crime scene in an Uber.
I'd never live it down. I slam my head against the headrest as I try to think of a way out of this mess, that doesn't have me disclosing what I woke up to, and how I have no idea how to account for what happened to me last night.
Fuck, Jasper Garnier would have a heyday if he knew, and there's zero chance that asshole wouldn't keep bringing it up or try to get me taken off this case.
No, I can't let anyone know, not until I'm sure. I yank out my phone and dial Jasper. "Lyssa, are you close?" I can hear the gaggle of reporters screaming questions at him, and his heavy breathing as he moves away from all the noise.
"I need you to send a cruiser to my place to get me," I grit.
"What the hell for, Scarlett?"
"Someone slashed all four of my tires while I slept," I reply calmly, even though that's the last thing I'm feeling. I wait with bated breath, but I don't have long, and Jasper doesn't disappoint with the string of profanity that exits him. Jesus, the man does have a filthy mouth.
"I'm sending someone fucking now, Scarlett. Tell me you have a decent camera set up to catch who did this to you?" He growls.
"Nope," I pop the 'P' like a brat, and hear the sudden intake of his breath in reaction.
"Stay fucking put, I'm coming myself." He disconnects before I have a chance to argue with him.
I push open the door of my car, racing back inside to grab the biggest and sturdiest knife I can find, so I can slash all four of my tires before he gets here.
This day just started, and it already sucks ass.
Whatever happened to me, whoever did this to me is going to beg for death when I find them.