Page 72 of The Turning of the Tables

I looked at him, frowning. “We have 7Up?”

“No. That’s why I have to get it. Will you be okay for like twenty minutes?”

I nodded, and Noah sighed, then left, leaving my door cracked.

I pulled out my phone and went to text someone, but I hesitated at my contact list, wondering which detective I should reach out to. Maza was out, and I didn’t actually know who they gave the case to.

I went with my gut and texted Detective Maginot.This is Seth Mays, one of the CSIs who was just at the Arcana case scene.

How are you feeling?Came back.

Not great, but I need to tell you something.I started to type out more, but then my phone started to buzz.

“Detective,” I croaked.

“You certainly sound not great,” Maginot rumbled back at me. “What do you need to tell me, Mays?”

I unloaded everything I could think of. The viral DNA. The shoe impressions. The lack of patterns. My worries about what the killer was going to try next—the fact that whoever took the case was going to be his next target.

“Christ,” was Maginot’s response when I finished. “It sounds like I need to catch up with Maza.”

“Probably,” I agreed. I knew enough to be worried, but Maza undoubtedly knew more. “Is it your case?” I asked him.

“It is now,” he replied. “My next call will be to the Captain.” He paused, and I wasn’t quite sure what to say, but then he continued. “Thanks for contacting me—and take care of yourself, Mays. Get better soon.”

By the timeNoah got back and made a thin noodle soup that he tried—and failed—to get me to eat, I had a fever. He forced me to take some alpha-gal-safe acetaminophen with some 7Up, and I managed to keep that down, although it took a concerted effort.

A few hours after that, he bullied me into drinking a little of the soup, and I didn’t manage to keep that down.

Nor could I keep down the gloopy pink shit that was supposed to help an upset stomach.

An hour after that, I couldn’t keep the 7Up down, either.

Noah bundled me in every extra blanket we had, then put a cold cloth on my forehead that he kept swapping out for others he’d put in the freezer.

He wokeme up at four in the morning because I’d been crying out in my sleep. There were dark circles under his blue eyes—eyes that matched mine in color and worry. He pressed the back of his fingers to my forehead, and they felt cold.

“Try to drink again?” he practically begged me.

I was too exhausted to protest, and Noah held up a straw to my lips.

I managed two swallows before it tried to come back up, and I clenched my jaw and turned my head away so I could concentrate on keeping it down.

“You need calories, Sethy,” my brother said softly.

I didn’t reply, still struggling with my gag reflex.

Noah sighed, then put the cup and straw on the bedside table. “It’s here if you want more. If you need me to help, just call, okay?”

I nodded.

By six in the morning,the nausea had receded enough that I could drink the 7Up. By seven, I’d managed to drink the soup, but my stomach still rebelled at even the attempt at crackers.

Noah made more soup, brought me more 7Up.

He snuggled up next to me while we watched kids’ movies from when we were little, using his body heat to keep me warm when the fever made me shiver.

Sometimes, I dozed. Sometimes he did.