Page 106 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

The door tore loose with a sharp, final snap. It was a horrific sound. It was also the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. Ben surged forward, the two uniformed officers falling into step behind him, and the three of them charging up the stairs as if they did this every day. Perhaps they did.

Nobody stopped me from following. Had they tried, they might have seen a very different Lake Larson. One I didn’t even recognize myself. My speed was such that I arrived on the roof less than a second behind Ben.

It was empty.

Confusion had me coming to a complete halt. They hadn’t come back through the door, which, short of a helicopter swooping down to pick them up, only left one route off the roof. Something dark and hopeless spread through my chest. I didn’t know whether to cry, scream, or do both in unison.

Later, I’d wonder why I hadn’t seen what Ben had, whether pessimism had gotten the better of me, or whether he ate a lot of carrots to improve his night vision. Whatever it was, the roof remained empty in my mind until Ben ran full pelt across it, shouting instructions that were just noise as he went.

Then I saw it.

A figure. Just one. Plastered to the parapet in an awkward position.

Baxter? Or Owen?

They were half-hanging over it, looking like they might fall at any moment. It made no sense until Ben and one of the uniformed officers dragged something back over the parapet.

Owen.

Which meant the other man, the one who’d fallen backwards on the tarmac and was sucking in air like he hadn’t breathed in hours, was Baxter. I ran, scared of what I might find when I got there, bracing myself for the worst.

He squinted up at me when I arrived at his side, chest still rising and falling rapidly. “No blood,” he said. “No wound.”

I fell to my knees beside him, running my hands over him gingerly. He winced when I reached his chest and sucked in a breath when I got to his shoulder. “I’m fine,” he said.

“I thought you weren’t going to say that anymore when it isn’t true.”

He laughed, but it cut off quickly when it caused him pain. I gathered him into my arms as gently as if he were one big bruise. Closing my eyes, I buried my nose in his hair. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“I’m not that easy to lose.”

There was noise in the background. Someone being read their Miranda rights. I didn’t really care. The only important thing was what I held in my arms.

A hand landed on my shoulder. Ben’s hand. “He needs to see a doctor,” he said. “They need to look at his arm.”

I knew that because Baxter only held onto me with one arm, the other hanging limply at his side. Between us, we helped him to his feet.

Owen was in handcuffs. We watched as two uniformed officers escorted him from the roof. He didn’t look back, his head down.

“Did you drop my phone?”

I followed Baxter’s gaze. Bringing it with me hadn’t even registered. Still holding onto him, I retrieved it, bringing it to my ear. “Calisto?” He’d probably hung up.

“Yeah. What’s going on?”

The note of panic in his voice made me feel guilty. “He’s okay. He has some injuries, but he’s okay.”

“I want to talk to him.”

I passed the phone over, Baxter holding it with his good hand. “Tell Asher,” he said, “that he got it wrong again.”

The next few hours were a blur. I’d refused to be separated from Baxter at the hospital. I didn’t care that the looks exchanged by the medical staff said I was an asshole as long as I could keep hold of Baxter’s hand. Treatment had come first, Baxter diagnosed with a partial dislocation of his shoulder, a ligament tear in his wrist, and bruised ribs from where the parapet had dug in. He had some scrapes as well, but they were minor compared to the other injuries.

They gave him painkillers before guiding his shoulder back in, and then they put it in a sling with strict instructions for him to take it easy for a week or two. Next, had come the questions from Ben and another detective, where they got him to go through exactly what had happened. He did so in painstaking detail, answering every single one of their questions to the best of his ability.

When the questions became repetitive, I called an end to it, insisting Baxter needed sleep. Ben didn’t fight it. No doubt he was dreaming of his own bed. It was two in the afternoon before we stumbled through my front door.

Baxter slept for a couple of hours. When he woke, I got him water and more painkillers, hovering next to him while he took them. “Did you sleep?” he asked once he rested back against the pillows.