Chapter 1
She could not justify the feeling of unease that made her look, then touch, then open the file that lay on Leo's desk. She should not have known, but she did; even before she saw the picture. A woman lay, grey and bloated with death on a bed that should have been white, but wasn't. Crimson had soaked and darkened into the sheets where it had drained from her. Bright life turned crusty where it had become still.
Nikki felt her own life flutter in her, but her eyes were stuck. She kept on looking, looking as she reacted, looking at herself react.
There were photos of the woman's wrists, gaping with twisted grimaces. And something else – strips of material? Someone had taken the time to identify them, laying them out against a white background with a ruler. Mr. Bump sticking plasters.
For the first time, Nikki's stomach rebelled against this assault on her eyes. She stumbled out of the office and into the clean room. Leaning against the empty metal sink she retched and vomited black coffee. It was the force of this that squeezed the tears from her eyes as she hung there, trembling.
"Nikki?" she heard herself moan, low and quiet and Harry was beside her in moments. He didn't say anything else, just emitted comforting sounds of sympathy and encouragement as he supported her left elbow and rubbed her back.
He didn't know what to say, because the concern that filled him seemed slightly out of proportion. When the waves of back-to-front convulsions seemed to ease a little and she slumped, exhausted, half against him and half against the sink he scraped back a stray strand of hair and looked her in the eyes.
"Dodgy chicken?" he said with a little smile. Half of her mouth reciprocated and she seemed to draw herself together but her eyes said 'shut' and he could not see inside.
He turned on the tap and she splashed her face and rinsed her mouth.
"Or dodgy coffee," he corrected, he was after all an expert in distinguishing stomach contents.
Nikki stood up straight, drying herself on her sleeve and murmured something that he didn't catch. He drew her close.
"Are you ok?" he asked.
"Yes, sorry," she nodded. She did seem better. "It's coffee on an empty stomach, always a bad idea... oh, yuck, did I get anything on you?"
He smiled. "No, you were remarkably neat, shame you can't bring those principles to your pit of a desk!" She didn't seem to have the energy to fight, but pinched him so he squirmed away. Holding her at arms length he said, "you sure you're ok?"
"Yes," she repeated soundly, "I just need to go home and get some rest."
"Do you want me to drive you?" He'd like to do something.
"No, it's ok, I've got my car."
He sighed, louder than he meant to, then kissed her forehead making her wrinkle her nose, more in reflex than in thought. It felt like they had performed this gesture many times. He wanted to say more, to do more, but his potentials didn't seem to actuate – they died on contact with air.
"Take care," he said, seriously.
"I will." And he watched her leave, frowning slightly as he put his own hand on the sink and used the other to scratch his chin.
Sitting in the driving seat, even before she turned the key, she knew it had begun again – the running. She was running away.