Not Peter.
My Peter.
I gasp and cold air seeps into my lungs, numbing my racing heart. Just as the weight of it hits like a truck, the clack of the doorlatch drags me out of my trance.
Did he forget something?
Heavy footsteps move up the hallway and as soon as Harris appears in the doorway, I snatch up the dusty lamp from the side table and launch it with all my strength at Harris.
It crashes against him and splinters, then shatters to the floor as the figure winces and grunts.
“Zira?”
That voice…
Not Harris.
“B-Bradley?”
25
BRADLEY
The lamp shatters against my chest and crumples to the floor, landing next to a dead body I barely have a second to take in because in the next moment, Zira’s flying at me. I prepare to catch her in a hug, but through her tears and her pained yell, I recognize her anger too late.
“You!” she screams as she collides with me, and both her fists batter against my chest. “You bastard! You bastard! I hate you! I hate you!”
While her initial explosion of anger is coherent, the harder she attacks me with kicks and punches, the harder she cries, and with that comes a decrease in my ability to understand what she’s saying. Every word out of her comes laced with tears and sobs that sound like they’re coming from the untouched depths of her soul. Even her fists against my chest are harder than I expect and she doesn’t stop. She punches my chest, my arm and my shoulder, then my abdomen as I loop my arm around her waist and guide her away from the body on the floor. Once we’re far enough away, I release her and block the body with my ownas Frank enters and immediately gets to work calling the help we need.
“Zira, tell me what happened. What did he do to you?”
She doesn’t stop. Her hair flies about her head, tears pour down her cheeks, and her words grow even more hoarse as she continues to attack me with everything she has. She hits and kicks, and when I catch her wrist to stop her from hurting herself, she quickly resorts to biting. None of her attacks particularly hurt, but being unable to understand her creates more distress for me.
I want to listen.
I want to understand so I can help her.
“Zira, you’re safe, okay? You’re safe! Everything’s going to be okay.”
“Nooo!” She wails brokenly. “You killed him! You killed him! You killed him!” Everything else melts away and she repeats that over and over, but her attacks don’t last long because grief or exhaustion seems to get the better of her and she dissolves into sobs and collapses into my arms. “I-I killed him,” she chokes out. “I k-killed him.”
Every tear, every wail and sob and scrape of her voice against her raw throat hurts me. She’s in pain, so much pain, and I can’t reach her. Nothing I say seems to breach the bubble she’s found herself in and despite her attempts to attack me, she ends up clinging to me with sobs racking her body in waves so powerful, I fear she’ll break apart.
I bundle her up into my arms and cradle her close to my chest, even as she tries to weakly push me away. Getting her out of here and somewhere safe is my priority.
By the time I get her into the car, she’s fallen silent. Tears continue to pour down her cheeks but she doesn’t make any sound, nor does she react to my touch as I secure her with a seatbelt. Taking her hand as we drive so I remain close is also met without a flicker of acknowledgement and her fingers remain limp against my palm while we race through the city and back to the Empire State Building.
Frank’s left in charge of that strange house with orders to find out who the dead man is and to pore over that place with a fine-toothed comb.
Back at the tower, Zira doesn’t resist when I scoop her out of the car or when I carry her into the elevator. She doesn’t make a sound when I take her to her room and kneel in front of her, nor does she acknowledge me when I take her hand.
“Zira? Do you know where you are?”
Our eyes meet, but I get the distinct impression that she’s staring past me at something I can’t see. Reaching up, I gently touch her cheek with the back of my knuckle to catch a stray tear. She doesn’t even flinch. She blinks slowly and breathes shallowly, but other than that, it’s like every part of her has switched off.
I remain with her and talk her through the doctor giving her a quick, non-invasive physical that ends in a blood draw. Zira’s dead to it all. She doesn’t answer questions, doesn’t flinch at the needle, and doesn’t react when I kiss the top of her head.
Something’s happened to her.
