Page 3 of Dead Sick (Cold Case Psychic #31)

Ronan

Curses, Foiled Yet Again

In Ronan’s relatively short time on this earth, he’d never once thought about killing another human being. Sure, he’d had the odd thought from time to time wishing explosive diarrhea on people who’d wronged him or an hour of aggressive hiccups on the cashier at Macy’s who’d told him he was too old to wear turquoise, but aside from that, he’d never once considered hurting another person.

Until today.

Tennyson had been true to his word, dropping off the various meds and comfort items the three detectives requested, and had even included some little extras like Ronan’s peanut butter cups. Sour Patch Kids for Jude and food magazines for Fitz. The sweet and sour soup from the Thai place was just what the doctor ordered, along with plenty of crunchy spring rolls and crab Rangoon.

“What the hell is this?” Ronan asked in his froggy-sounding voice. He’d just come out of the bathroom after lunch to see Jude and Fitz sitting at the kitchen table chowing down on his beloved peanut butter cups. Everyone in the O’Mara-Grimm household knew it was hands-off with the Reese’s, but apparently Jude hadn’t gotten the memo.

You think you know a person.

“What the hell is what ?” Jude asked, around a mouthful of candy. Scattered around him were four empty wrappers, licked clean.

“You’re eating my peanut butter cups!” Ronan had never been more outraged in his life. Not even when Lance McTwinkleToes told him turquoise was for young gays.

“Ohhh, those are my favorite,” Fitzgibbon said, grabbing another snack. He sat in Everly’s usual seat and ate the cup in one bite. “Mmmm, heaven.”

Ronan sputtered. “Those are mine.”

“What’s yours?” Fitzgibbon asked, reaching for a second treat.

Ronan couldn’t be sure, but thought he saw a gleam in Cap’s eyes. In all the years he’d known Fitz, the man had never done anything to warrant Ronan’s suspicion of him, but when peanut butter cups were involved anything was possible.

Maybe his fever was messing with his brain. Or Fitzgibbon was messing with his emotional support candy. “The Reese’s. Ten got those for me.”

“Too bad. So sad.” Fitzgibbon popped an unwrapped peanut butter cup into his mouth.

Ronan grabbed the bag, noticing there were only a few left. What the actual hell? Stomping out of the room, he shoved the remaining wrapped treats between the couch cushions. There was no way Jude and Fitz would find them there. Not with Ronan sitting on the couch. He’d hide them later, when Jude and Fitz weren’t in the kitchen. They’d go right into the empty bag of frozen broccoli Ronan kept for such emergencies. Let his asshole friends try to find his chocolate in there.

“Why didn’t Ten send us teriyaki chicken skewers? I’ll die without them!” Jude shouted from the kitchen.

The sound of his friend’s voice felt like nails on a chalkboard. Much more of this and Ronan was going to have to suffocate Jude with his own pillow, which Ronan couldn’t help noticing had a crisp clean case on it. Ronan’s, on the other hand, had snot marks from the night before. Why hadn’t Ten changed his pillowcase? “This is how it ends,” Ronan said pitifully, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“Ronan, you’re not going to starve to death because we ate your candy.” Fitz made an annoyed face.

Fresh anger lit in Ronan’s gut over the thought of his lost treats. Setting that unforgivable act aside for a second, he shook his head. “Ten didn’t change my germy pillowcase. Cope did for Jude, but I have to sleep on my own crusty snot.”

Fitzgibbon coughed, gagging twice before he got himself under control. “For the love of God, can we not talk about crusty snot?” Fitzgibbon gagged again. “Where does Ten keep the clean sheets?”

“Linen closet in the hallway upstairs.” Ronan would have pointed, but he was too tired to lift his arm.

“I’ll grab one for you, your highness.” Snorting, Fitzgibbon gagged again and left the room.

Served him right, getting a mouthful of his own mucus for laughing at Ronan. Out of nowhere, Ronan sneezed.

“Christ, your goo landed on my arm!” Jude wailed, sounding like a toddler badly in need of a nap. He ran to the sink and turned on the faucet.

“I thought we were brothers,” Ronan muttered.

“Sure we are, when we’re barbecuing steaks in the backyard. Not when you slime my arm with your screaming yellow zonkers!” Jude laughed.

His boogs weren’t yellow. At least he didn’t think they were. “Where the hell is Fitz with my clean pillowcase?”

Jude’s eyes narrowed. “I haven’t heard him hacking in a few minutes. Do you think he choked to death on his own phlegm?” Jude sounded worried.

Ronan gasped. “Oh, my God, did he?” He got to his feet and headed toward the stairs. Ronan made it halfway up before he stopped to cough and catch his breath. He sat down hard on one of the risers. Fuck, what if Fitz was dead? He’d become the head of the cold case unit, for starters. Captain Ronan O’Mara. His name would be up in lights. He’d give press conferences and interviews to hard hitting journalists, who’d want to know his secret for carrying on seamlessly in a crisis. “We’re all going to miss Kevin Fitzgibbon,” he’d say, making the reporters cry. He’d then flash his million-watt smile, before launching into a brief, but heartfelt soliloquy on the man, the myth, the legend, that was Fitzy.

“What the fuck are you doing sitting here, staring off into space like a dumbass while Fitz is dead upstairs?”

Ronan’s vision faded as Jude sneered at him. “I got dizzy,” Ronan said, on the fly. Surely Jude wouldn’t want him to risk falling down the stairs. But with Fitz dead, Ronan falling down the stairs would make Jude captain of the cold case unit. That dirty son of a goat. Ronan opened his mouth to tell him as much, when Jude shoved past him and climbed the rest of the stairs.

“Fuck a duck,” Jude muttered.

“No! Fitz!” Ronan tried to shout, but his voice cracked. He scrambled up the stairs, knowing he was going to find Fitzgibbon’s body sprawled out on the hall floor. How the hell did one draw a chalk outline on Berber carpet anyway? Ronan would figure that out later, right now he needed to determine how he was going to handle Fitzy’s death. He’d take back all the bad things he’d ever said or thought about Kevin before if he could just see his stupid face one more time.

When Ronan reached the top of the stairs, there was nobody waiting for him. Come to think of it, there was no Jude either. Poking his head into Everly’s room, he found his captain, sound asleep, his mouth hanging open, clutching one of his daughter’s favorite unicorns, his long legs hanging off the bed, dangling above the floor.

Leaving Fitz to sleep the sleep of angels, he looked into Ezra’s room and found Jude curled into a ball like a kitten. His snores were the most bizarre and annoying thing Ronan had ever heard. Breathing in, Jude reminded Ronan of whistling birds, breathing out, he sounded like a freight train.

“Fuck me with a chainsaw,” he muttered, heading back down the stairs. Settling himself on the sofa, Ronan rested his face on his pillow and instantly realized he’d forgotten to get a clean pillowcase, when his cheek brushed against fossilized snot.

Curses, fucking foiled again.