Hello again!
I should probably wait a little longer and post this after I´ve written more than just the first three chapters, but...
1.: I´m an extremely impatient person,
2.: I found out pressure to write and post in a timely manner helps keeping me focused and sane.
This story is a sequel to The Disappeared. I tried to work in some backstory for those who don´t want to read the previous story, but I do recommend reading it first to get a better understanding of some details.
It is set approximately two years after the finale.
And as usual, you can expect a lot of hurt/comfort, angst, friendship, and action.
So here we go...
Steve tried to figure out what had woken him up.
He couldn´t.
He opened his eyes and immediately wished he hadn´t. Bright light flooded in, exploding little detonations of pain in the front of his head. He squeezed his eyes shut again. The pain remained, reduced to a dull throb that pulsed behind his eyes. He felt awful. His skin was clammy. He felt sick.
He tried to remember.
What was it?
What had woken him?
A raised voice.
That was it. He was sure. Someone had screamed.
He opened his eyes again. He was flat on his back, lying on a bed. bed. His head was turned to the side, and he could see the bedside table a few inches away. Beyond that was a bureau upon which was positioned an old-fashioned television. He tried to push himself upright. The pain flared and he felt an almost overwhelming urge to be sick. He fought it back, propped himself up on his elbows, and raised himself enough that he could look around the room.
It was a plain space, on the small side, and decorated in neutral colors. There were two single beds with a bedside table between them. Steve's bed was a mess: the sheets were sodden and bunched around his legs, and the pillow was on the floor.
The other bed was untouched, save a scattering of banknotes that had been cast across it. Steve saw a bottle on the bedside table. The label said Elijah Craig Kentucky straight bourbon whiskey. The bottle was almost empty and lying on its side. The neck was over the edge of the table and, as Steve looked down, he saw a puddle on the tiled floor.
He started to feel uneasy.
What had happened here? He couldn't remember. He tried to recall what he had been doing the previous night, but he couldn't. It was as if his memories were obscured by a thick shroud and, despite his best efforts, he could not move it aside. He closed his eyes again and furrowed his brow, trying to remember where he was and how he had gotten here. It was hopeless.
He reached further back. He remembered Jamba, his adoptive son, getting ready for a sleepover at Danny´s with over-the-roof excitement. And then walking to a bar. He remembered Lynn. He had met her, just as he promised he would. He remembered how beautiful she was and how little she had changed in the years since he´d last seen her. He remembered that they had talked, but not what about.
And, after that… nothing.
Everything else was hidden behind the shroud. His heart sank. He knew what must have happened. There was only one explanation. He had been drinking too much. Must have been.
He carefully swung his legs around and over the edge of the bed so that he could put them down and, careful not to step in the bourbon, he pushed himself up to a sitting position. His whole body ached and he thought, again, that he was going to vomit. He steadied himself and, easing himself to a standing position, looked around the room once more. He saw another bottle on the floor in the corner of the room. This one had been broken, the heavier base standing upright while the neck lay horizontally across the tile. There were two glasses near it, both shattered, tiny fragments catching the light that slanted in through a gap in the curtains.
Steve saw that the door had not been closed properly. He crossed the room and opened the door fully. Heat washed into the room. It was bright and stifling outside. He peered up into the sky; the sun's position said that dawn had been three or four hours ago. There was an empty parking lot, with weeds forcing their way up between cracks in the asphalt, and a row of palm trees in the distance.
He closed the door and turned back into the room again.
Where was he?
How did he get here?
There was one other open door that led into the bathroom. He crossed the room and went inside. The room was small. There was a toilet and a basin with a small cupboard beneath it.
He froze and his heart skipped a beat.
There was a body on the floor.
It was a woman. She was lying on her side with her torso between the cupboard and the toilet and her legs bent with her knees to her chest. Her blonde hair was fanned out across the white tile. Her skin was pale, almost white, and it highlighted the obscene bruising around her exposed throat.
Her head was angled toward him and he could see half of her face.
A chill ran down his spine with the realization. It couldn´t be…
"No," he managed to croak, sheer terror spreading through his chest. "Lynn?"
He was about to drop down on the floor beside her, but his stomach turned and the sick churned up from his gullet in a hot, acrid rush. Steve couldn't hold it down. He stepped over Lynn´s body and vomited into the sink, gout after gout of it until the sink was splattered and he was left feeling hollowed out and dizzy.
"Put your hands up!"
Steve turned around.
The door to the bedroom was open and a woman was standing in the doorway. She was wearing navy-blue trousers and the same-colored shirt with one star above the right pocket and a badge pinned to the left side of her chest. Steve recognized it immediately: Honolulu Police Department. The holster on her belt was empty. She had taken out a Glock 17 pistol and was aiming it straight at him.
"Hands!" she demanded.
With confusion lining his face, Steve did as told.
"Come out."
He looked at Lynn´s body again and then back at the officer.
Am I responsible?
"Step into the room."
What´s going on? What the hell had happened?
Steve wanted to protest, to tell her that it wasn´t what it looked like, but the words caught in his throat. He knew why: he couldn´t be sure. Maybe it was exactly what it looked like. He´d killed before, but… he wouldn´t kill Lynn, would he?
He stepped out of the bathroom.
"Knees. Now!"
The police officer was young. One star on her uniform suggested she´d been with HPD between five and ten years. She was holding her weapon a little too tightly, the butt clutched deep in her palm and her index finger too rigid around the trigger. Her hands shook, making the muzzle quiver, and Steve knew that disarming her would have been a simple thing.
But he didn´t want to disarm her.
He turned around, sank to his knees, and put his hands behind his back so that the officer could cuff him.
*to be continued*
I know it wasn´t much of a chapter but consider it just an introduction to the story.
Please let me know what you think :)