Page 13 of Dead Serious: Case 3 Mr Bruce Reyes

I don’t know how long I stay like that, drifting in and out of sleep, when I suddenly become aware of a familiar presence. Lifting my head, I blink as Dusty appears on the other side of the bed.

“How is he?”

“He’s going to be okay,” I whisper. “A bang to the head, some cracked ribs, a messed-up leg. Where have you been?”

“Upstairs.” She points up to the ceiling. “I went to ask about Danny, but there’s something fucking weird going on.”

I frown. “What?”

“I don’t know.” Dusty chews her lip worriedly. “They aren’t saying anything specific. In fact, they’re going out of their way to not say anything, if you know what I mean. It took me ages to find anyone who’d even talk to me, but when I finally did, they seemed pissed that Danny had been injured at all.”

“What?” I blink in confusion.

“It’s not Danny’s time.” She crosses the room and stares out of the window behind me, her gaze drawn to the turbulent black and grey clouds swirling above the city. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I get the distinct impression Danny’s accident was not supposed to happen.” She tears her gaze away from the tempestuous skies, her dark eyes filled with a gravity I wouldn’t normally associate with her larger-than-life persona. “Tristan, whatever is happening, I get the feeling it’s got something to do with this storm.”

4

I’m aware of a quiet beeping somewhere nearby as I swim up groggily through layers of sleep. My mind can’t quite figure out what that noise is. It’s not my alarm—am I late for work? I try to open my eyes. God, did I drink last night? Am I just really hung over? That doesn’t make any sense either. I rarely get drunk. My body feels heavy and as I try to shift, searing pain shoots through me. I hurt everywhere.

What the fuck happened?

I finally force my eyes open, blinking blearily. My head is pounding, and my mouth is drier than the Sahara. I look down and see my body covered by a pale blue blanket. My right hand rests on top of the blanket and cannulas and tubes are inserted into my skin and taped into place, but I barely pay them any attention. Instead, my gaze lands on my left leg, which is raised and covered with dressings and a brace. I attempt to move my leg and a burst of excruciating pain spasms right down to the bone.

I turn my head barely an inch, gritting my teeth against the wave of pain travelling down my neck, and my stomach clenches at the sight that greets me. A mop of curly brown hair I’d recognise anywhere rests on the bed beside my thigh, and a hot, clammy hand grips mine.

I’m clearly in hospital and, judging from the state of me and the amount of pain I’m in, I can only assume I was in some kind of accident. I think back to the last thing I remember, but it’s hard to follow any trail of thought through the pain.

I wonder how long I’ve been here. The last thing I remember is leaving Tristan at home, tucked up in bed with the flu. Is he still sick? That would explain how hot his hand feels. I debate on waking him. If he is still unwell, he probably needs the sleep, but he can’t be comfortable sitting in a hard plastic chair and hunched over my hospital bed.

“Tris,” I whisper, my voice dry and dusty. Swallowing against the slight ache in my throat, I try again, this time punctuating the word with a squeeze to his hand. “Tris.”

He stirs, shifting his head against the blanket and letting out a quiet wheeze. I grip his hand a little tighter and he jolts himself upright and turns those beautiful green eyes to me.

“Danny,” he croaks.

Jesus, he looks terrible. His eyes are rimmed red from crying, and his skin is pale and clammy except for his cheeks, which are bright red. I lift my hand to cup one of them and feel the heat against my fingers.

“Tristan.” I frown. “You’re still sick. You should be resting in bed.”

“Do you really think I would stay at home in bed while you’re here?” he whispers, his voice pitching and lowering unevenly.

“What happened? I can’t…” I shake my head, sending another clanging jolt of pain through my neck and head as my hand drops back to the bed.

“What do you remember?”

“Leaving the flat.” I try to cast my mind back. “You were in bed with the flu. Was that this morning?”

He nods. “You went to work, but there was a storm.”

“That’s right,” I murmur, trying to piece together the puzzle. “I was with Maddie.”

“There was an accident.” Tris swallows. “The storm brought a tree down on top of the car you and Maddie were in.”

“Maddie?” I draw in a worried breath. “Is she…?”

“She’s okay, dislocated shoulder and mild concussion. She left with Sonia a couple of hours ago. They’d waited with me while you were in surgery.”

“Surgery?”