Page 68 of The Rut in the Road

Pain bloomed out from his knee, his hips, his back.

His chest felt tight.

His heart pounded, and every beat was like ice.

He tried to get up.

Couldn’t.

Too much pain.

Not enough air.

Fuck.

I drew a shuddering breath,painfully aware that the man whose watch I was holding hadn’t been able to in the last few panic-filled moments of his life.

I jumped when fingers touched my arm—Raj.

I blinked up at him, my vision blurry. Tears. I sniffled.

“Here,” came Cass’s voice at my other side. I turned to find her holding out a box of tissues. I pulled one out with the arm that wasn’t in Raj’s warm grip. I needed that grip. Needed the warmth and strength of his hand. I knew it wouldn’t be appropriate for him to hug me here, so I appreciated whatever I could get.

I wiped at my eyes and nose, then took another breath.

“Jesus fuck,” Hart muttered, one hand tugging on the end of his braid.

I was glad that at least I’d developed the habit of narrating what I saw as I saw it—it took more concentration to be able to do both things at once, but it at least meant that I didn’t have to re-narrate it after the memory was over.

Not that a memory like that one, or the death of the third victim, which I’d already seen, was ever really going to be over. You don’t forget them—once I’ve been inside someone’s head, their memories become mine, in a sense. Not that I think I’ve been that person—I know I’m not—but that whatever they’ve experienced, I’ve now remembered. And while I knew full well which memories were mine and which weren’t—at least, I was pretty sure I did, although I suppose if I ever do lose that sense of me-versus-thee I won’t know that it’s happened—that didn’t stop my brain from summoning up those memories as though they were my own.

If I ever walked down the street past the alley in which Odell Jones—that was his name, although I didn’t know it from his thoughts, of course—had died, I would recognize it, and it would bring this particular memory rushing back.

They were also always potential fodder for nightmares, too, of course. Nightmares that I tried very hard to keep to myself.

“You okay?” Raj whispered, a slight edge to his voice.

I knew at least some part of him wanted me to say no. I nodded, instead. “Let’s keep going.”

I letRaj drive me home—I could hardly have refused, especially since the FBI building was a lot farther from my apartment than Beyond the Veil, well out of walking distance—and then I let himbundle me upstairs and make me dinner. He’d rooted through my cupboards and come up with macaroni and cheese which he’d augmented with broccoli and cauliflower from the freezer, chicken breast, and a sauce he’d made out of both the powder and something else he’d scrounged from somewhere.

It was actually quite good and tasted a good deal more like real food than any boxed mac-and-cheese concoction I’d ever come up with.

I’d probably have been more grateful if he’d fussed less while he brought it to me.

And if I hadn’t been so exhausted that the act of lifting a forkful of noodles, chicken, and vegetables to my mouth felt like weight training.

The fact that some of Raj’s fussing—about me having over-extended myself—was likely based on the truth only made me more irritated by it.

I should have been more grateful. He was making me a hot meal, making sure I was rehydrated, tucking a blanket around me to make sure I stayed warm, bringing me tea, and then making cookies with some of the dough in the freezer, bringing them to me still warm with a mug of milk.

Taking care of me.

I just wasn’t in the mood to be taken care of.

I didn’t knowwhatI was in the mood for, if I’d been able to be honest with myself. Every nerve, every neuron felt raw, scraped, and rubbed with salt and lemon. Everything was too much.

Including Raj.