Page 1 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

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Ah-ah-ah-choooooo…

“Ow…” I croak. My throat is too painful for me to swallow, and my head gives a sharp throb in response to the violent sneeze. “I’m dying,” I mutter woefully.

There’s a low, familiar chuckle of affection coming from somewhere beside me, but I don’t have the energy to move. Instead, I stay spread-eagled on my stomach with half my face mashed into my pillow.

“You’re not dying,” Danny rumbles. The edge of the bed dips and his warm hand rubs soothing circles on my back. “You’re really hot though.”

“Thank you, but I’m not in the mood right now,” I slur, wondering idly if I’m drooling onto the pillow but too exhausted to do anything about it.

Danny chuckles again and the bed jiggles slightly.

“Sweetheart, you’re burning up. I can feel how hot you are through your pjs.” I crack one eye open and see him frown. “I’ve called Hen at the mortuary and told her you won’t be in for a few days.”

“’Kay,” I mumble.

“Okay?” he replies in amusement. “Just okay? Wow, now I know you’re really sick. You hate missing work.”

“I feel dreadful,” I bemoan. “I wish you could stay home with me. We could watch crappy daytime TV while you lovingly hand-feed me Strepsils.”

“I wish I could, baby,” he says gently as he strokes my sweaty hair back from my face. “But Maddie called. We’ve got a new case and we’re really understaffed because of the storm.”

“Stupid weather,” I mutter.

“I don’t like leaving you while you’re this sick though.” Danny frowns again. “Maybe I should call Chan? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on you until I get home.”

For a moment I almost say yes. The thought of Chan keeping me company if Danny can’t be here is very appealing. God, when did I get so needy? I’ve spent years on my own, having to take care of not only my dad but myself.

A resigned sigh escapes my lips. “Danny, I’m sick, not six. I don’t need a babysitter,” I say reluctantly. “Besides, she’s been rehearsing all week for her new number at The Rainbow Room, and as much as she loves me, I can’t imagine she’ll be happy if she catches the flu from me the day before opening night.”

“Fine,” he huffs. “But you’ll call me if you need anything? I can pop home during my lunch break.”

“No, don’t,” I rasp, listening to the howl of the wind and the constant downpour outside the bedroom window. “It’s probably not a good idea to go out in the storm any more than you have to.”

“I’m going to get you some water and some paracetamol. Do you want me to make you a cup of tea before I go?”

“’Kay.” My eyes close.

The bed jiggles again as Danny stands, his footsteps echoing as he crosses the room. Gathering up what little strength I have, I push myself up and flop unceremoniously onto my back, reaching out with one hand and fumbling on the bedside table for the box of tissues.

There’s a loud clatter, causing me to open my eyes as I knock the lamp over and several items, probably including my glasses, tumble to the floor. Feeling my fingers graze the cardboard box, I grasp hold of it and pull it over.

A quiet whine of misery escapes my mouth as the change of position shifts the pressure in my sinuses. Giving up on trying to actually blow my nose, I settle for jamming a tissue up each nostril to stem the constant drip.

Leaving the tissue box balanced on my chest, my hand flops back onto the bed and I lay diagonally across the mattress like a starfish. My eyes drift closed again, and I feel the flutter of the tissues against my top lip while my mouth hangs open so I can breathe.

Danny re-enters the room. As always, he has impeccable timing. “You have never looked sexier.”

My attempted chuckle comes out as more of a wheeze and triggers a bout of coughing which in turn makes my head throb miserably.

“Come on, baby.” Danny crosses the room and I hear him set a mug down on the bedside table and straighten up everything I knocked over. “You’ll feel better once you get some medicine down you.”

He carefully props the pillows up behind me and helps me shuffle up the bed to a more seated position before tucking the covers around me, then moves the wastepaper bin next to me so I can pull the tissues from my nose and drop them in.

“Thank you,” I mumble as he hands me a couple of pills and a glass of water. It’s a struggle to take them—my throat feels like it’s filled with shards of glass every time I swallow—but I finally manage to choke them down. As he takes back the glass and sets it down on the bedside table, I notice a steaming mug of tea and beside it a thermos flask.

“What’s in there?”