Page 22 of Cold Mercy

When I open it, there are neatly stocked, prepared boxes of disinfectant wipes, gauze, wraps, and antiseptic. Like she’s been expecting a moment like this. I grab what I need and go back to the couch. I clean the cuts on her palms. She doesn’t flinch, not even a twitch. She looks past me, eyes unfocused, like I’m not even in the room.

I should leave her here, trembling and alone. I should call EMS anonymously and walk away. Touching her is a mistake. Caring is a fucking liability.

But my hands are moving before I give them permission.

I look directly into her eyes anyway, trying to anchor her. She notices, barely.

“I’m not feeling talkative, Thomas,” she mutters.

It was the first time she called me by my name, and I felt a strong tightening in my stomach.

“That’s fine. I can be quiet.”

It’s the closest thing to accommodating I've said to any suspect in years. I leave her for a moment and kneel at the fireplace. The house is cold, not just the walls but the air itself. It feels like it was abandoned months ago.

When I get a fire going, warmth pushes back the chill. I turn back, and she’s already asleep. Curled under the blanket, face slack with exhaustion, hands bandaged. I sit in the chair next to her because I can’t bring myself to leave.

I should be searching this house. Her laptop, her office, the safe I know she has. The subject is incapacitated. This is a tactical goldmine. But I can't move. I'm anchored to this chair, watching the rise and fall of her chest.

If I stand up now, I go back to being the cop. The one who uses a moment like this to get what he wants. I become the cold bastard she probably thinks I am. And the thought of proving her right...it feels like a failure I’m not willing to accept. Not tonight.

If she's going to be this broken, this completely undone, it should be because of me. Not because of some ghost in the ground, and certainly not because of herself. I want to be the one who takes her apart.

By the time the morning lightens the sky outside the window, I haven’t slept. She’s still sleeping, breathing evenly now. I hear footsteps on the front porch. I straighten immediately, move between her and the door, and lift my gun. My pulse spikes. The door opens, and a small, older woman steps inside. She freezes when she sees the gun pointed at her chest.

“Por favor, no me haga daño,” she pleads, hands raised.

My weapon disappears as quickly as it appeared.

“Lo siento. Perdóname,” I say. “I’m Thomas… a friend of Sophia’s.”

Her eyes dart to the couch, to Sophia sleeping. Her accent thickens with worry.

“I clean for Miss Sophia. I come every morning.”

I should explain something, anything, but nothing feels right.

She steps closer, her face softening.

“She is asleep? Poor girl.”

I hesitate, but I nod. “She had… a difficult night.”

The woman’s expression changes, as if she already knows exactly what that means.

“Is the mirror broken?”

I blink.

“Yes. How did you-”

She takes my hands suddenly, like she’s about to pray with me.

“Happens sometimes. Too much sadness that has nowhere to go.”

I swallow against the sudden thickness in my throat. That pressure I felt last night is back, pressing down on my ribs. She thinks I am a protector who saved her. It should feel like a victory.

So why does it feel like I just put the leash on myself?