Chapter 12
Twelve
We’re talking about nothing.
That’s what sticks with me later, when the rest of the memory starts to blur at the edges. The fact that it’s so ordinary. He’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the door in time with the radio.
I’m half-listening while watching the blurred lights of the city and thinking about an exam I’ve been pretending doesn’t have my stomach in knots.
“You’ll be fine.” He glances at me with that unshakable confidence. “You’ve always had steady hands, just like your grandfather.”
I tell him that’s not a real medical metric, that he’s making it up because he’s my dad and it’s in the job description. He laughs.
The sound still hangs in the air when the bang hits.
It’s so violent and sudden that I don’t know what’s happening until I feel the metal folding in on itself.
The car lurches sideways, hard enough to steal the air from my lungs.
Glass shatters, spraying the dark with diamonds.
The radio cuts out mid-chorus. Everything jerks and stops in a way that makes my stomach drop.
I’m moving before I even register the seatbelt bruising my shoulder. I’m out of the car, feet slipping on loose gravel and palms scraping raw against the asphalt as I catch myself. I’m shouting his name over and over, but the sound feels trapped in my throat.
There’s blood. Too much of it.
The driver’s side is crushed inward. He’s still strapped inside.
His head is tilted at an angle that makes my entire chest seize.
The blood is on his shirt, soaking through the fabric in a dark, blooming heat.
It’s on my hands when I grab him, and my fingers are shaking even as I force them into a steady grip.
“Dad,” I choke out. “Look at me!”
His eyes flutter, unfocused. His mouth opens as if he’s searching for a word, but only a shallow wheeze escapes.
I get him out as carefully as I can, lowering him onto the cold road. I don’t feel the grit on my knees when I kneel. I don’t feel the sting in my arm where I’ve sliced it on the door.
I put my hands where they’re supposed to go.
Airway.
Breathing.
Circulation.
I start pressing.
I count out loud because someone once told me that numbers give you something to hold onto when the world is slipping through your fingers.
“One. Two. Three.”
The blood keeps coming. His chest doesn’t rise. Someone is screaming nearby, and it takes me a devastating second to realize the sound is coming from me.
“Stay with me,” I growl, pushing harder. “Stay with me, damn it!”
I don’t stop. I can’t. The world narrows until there’s nothing left but the rhythmic thud of my hands and the sound of my own ragged breathing.
Then something cuts through the dark.
Music.
At first, it feels like a hallucination—a bright pop beat bleeding into a scene where it has no right to be. It grows louder, pulling at the edges of the nightmare until the road, the blood, and his face start to dissolve.
My eyes snap open.
For a second, the disorientation is absolute. My heart is pounding against my ribcage, and cold sweat is trickling down the back of my neck.
Then the ceiling comes into focus. My apartment.
And the Spice Girls are blasting up through the floorboards.
I drag the heels of my hands over my face and let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a dark laugh. The nightmare lingers, leaving that familiar heaviness in my gut that doesn’t vanish just because the lights are on.
I glance at the clock.
1:21 a.m.
“So that’s how this is going to go,” I mutter to the shadows.
I lie there for a moment, trying to slow the adrenaline. I’ve just come off a week of brutal, soul-sucking shifts. All I want is sleep.
The song ends.
I hold my breath, hoping for a miracle.
Another one starts.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
There’s movement below me. I hear the muffled vibration of footsteps. Then a woman’s laugh. No, that’s not a laugh. That’s a goddamn cackle.
I stare at the ceiling. “Fantastic. My neighbor is a witch.”
Then comes an enthusiastic, “Woot woot!”
I blink.
Madison—the high-powered, razor-tongued woman who looked like she’d rather die than be seen in anything less than a power suit—is a ‘woot woot’ girl?
I pull the pillow over my head, but it’s a lost cause. The bass bleeds through the mattress. Now that I’m awake, I can hear exactly how the sound travels.
Is this what she has been dealing with?
I’ll have to call the landlord first thing Monday. Right now, though, it’s 1:23 a.m., and the music has shifted into a higher gear. I’m too tired to be patient and too wired from the dream to stay in this bed.
“Okay,” I say to the empty room. “Fine.”
I shove myself up, pull on a pair of gray sweats and a T-shirt, and head for the door. I take the stairs instead of the elevator. It’ll count toward my step goal. Maybe the physical exertion will burn off the last of the copper smell from the nightmare.
I reach apartment 3B and raise my hand to knock.
What’s crazy is that out here in the hallway, it’s silent. She’s right. It’s a floor-to-ceiling glitch.
I’m about to hammer the wood again when the door swings open and a wall of music spills out.
Madison is flushed, barefoot, and glowing in that careless way people get when alcohol has softened all their edges. Her red hair is wild, and a smattering of freckles stands out across her nose. She’s wearing black leggings and an oversized sweater that’s slipping off one shoulder.
She squints at me, her green eyes bright and slightly hazy.
“Oh,” she says, a mischievous, lopsided smile spreading across her face. “It’s you.”
“Yes,” I reply, trying to stay annoyed. “It’s me.”
“Well,” she says, leaning against the doorframe, “this is awkward. Did you come to borrow a cup of sugar?”
I glance past her into the apartment. There’s a half-empty margarita jug on the counter. Her friends from the ER are peeking out from the kitchen with wine glasses.
“Hi, Doc-from-the-apartment!” the dark-haired one calls.
The blonde gives a small wave.
Madison raises her glass toward them. “This is Celeste and Emmy.”
I nod once. “Morning.”
Madison turns back to me, her eyes dragging deliberately from my face to my chest, then lower. Much lower.
“What brings you down here, Gray Sweatpants?”
I ignore the nickname and the blatant inspection. “I was hoping you could turn the music down, or maybe spice up your life at a more reasonable volume.”
She stares at me for a beat before bursting out laughing. “Oh my God. You made a joke.”
“I’m exhausted,” I tell her. “It’s one in the morning.”
“Okay. Counterpoint.” She gestures toward the ceiling. “You.”
“What about me?”
“You thud,” she says, very seriously. “Thud, thud, thud. All day. All night.”
“I run on a treadmill.”
“No, you thud,” she insists, jabbing a finger toward my chest. “My bedroom sounds like a construction site. My walls vibrate, Beckett. My moisturizer moved three inches to the left today.”
Emmy tilts her head from the background. “Is this about the treadmill?”
“Yes,” I say.
Madison points at me again. “See? He thuds.”
I rub my hand over the back of my neck. “I was told these units were soundproof. That’s why I moved in.”
“Oh, they are. All around us.” Madison smiles sweetly. “It’s the vertical integrity that’s the problem. We’re basically living in a two-story drum.” She glances over her shoulder. “It’s wine night… or margarita night. We’re still deciding.”
“In our defense,” Celeste adds, “we tried to be quiet.”
I look at the margarita jug.
“I noticed,” I deadpan.
Madison’s smile turns predatory. “Would you like a drink, Doc? It might ease the tension.”
“No.”
“You’d be so much more fun if you did. You’re very sturdy, but very boring.”
“I’m a doctor on my day off. Boring is the goal.”
“My previous neighbor,” she cuts in, waving a hand, “was Mr. Rogers. He was eighty-five. He took out his hearing aids at 9 p.m. and went to sleep. We were best friends.” She leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Mr. Rogers shuffled. He didn’t thud.”
“I don’t thud.”
“You thud,” she repeats.
“I’ve heard it myself,” Celeste laughs. “It’s definitely a thud.”
This is a losing battle. I’m standing in a hallway at 1 a.m., being bullied by three drunk women and a Spice Girls track.
I need to say something to gain control of this situation.
“I saw you on the news today,” I blurt out, looking at Madison.
What the actual fuck, Beckett?
The playfulness in her eyes falters for a split second before she masks it with the iron-clad composure I saw on TV.
“Did it get my good side?” she asks.
Is it possible for a woman like her to have a bad side? Even in an oversized sweater and no shoes, she looks like she could negotiate a peace treaty.
I don’t answer.
Celeste does. “Oh my God, Madi, stop flirting with your neighbor.”
“We’re not flirting,” I say flatly.
Madison arches a brow, her gaze lingering on me. “That’s what you think.”
I look at her properly. The confidence. The sharpness that even alcohol can’t dull. She’s the kind of woman who would chew you up and spit you out for sport, then offer you a margarita while you’re still bleeding.
I try to regain some ground. “I just need the music lowered. That’s it.”
She considers me, her eyes flicking over my face. “Fine. This song is the last one.”
“Thank you,” I say, turning to go.
“Wait,” Madison calls out. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing,” she says, waving lazily at me.
“What am I doing?”
“Coming down here in those slutty gray sweatpants.” She flashes me a wink that’s entirely too effective. “I see you, Doc. I really do.”
I feel the heat creep up my neck. I have no idea what to say to that. “Drink some water before bed. You’re going to feel the tequila in the morning.”
Madison smiles. “Bossy. I like it.”
“You won’t like it when I’m going for an extra-long run on my treadmill before the sun comes up,” I add, my voice tight.
Her eyes light up with a fresh spark of challenge. “Threatening me? Careful, Beckett. I might just start to like you.”
I head for the stairs without another word.
Behind me, her voice follows me up the concrete. “Goodnight, Doc! Try not to thud too loud!”