It was her, but not her. She was Andy, standing in her shoes, moving in her body. She was strong and running fast, fear pushing her along. Like the spring tide, the terror was relentless, eating away at the shore. Her sanity. Pounding at it again and again.
She ran, gun in hand, dodging people on the sidewalk. Left, right, rushing past shop fronts—a deli, dry cleaners, shoe shop. Left, right, the bright colors merging into a blur, passing in a steady stream of blues, oranges, and reds, people laughing, then hurriedly stepping out of the way as if she was a madwoman.
“She’s got a gun!” someone called. A man. Young and pimply, he scurried away from her.
A left turn. Faster. Lungs on fire, breath exploding, legs churning the air. Through a glass door, fighting the people on their way out. Straight to the corner booth.
A woman in a pantsuit and hair the color of wheat—Jane Wright—was lying on her stomach in a pool of blood. The air smelled coppery, heavy, nauseating. Andy—Isabelle—turned around, ducking, scouting her surroundings. The shooter must be here, close by.
To her left were two more women. One was dead, the other alive.
From the corner of her eye, she could see René rushing across the room, gun drawn. She crouched down to feel for a pulse. Detective Wright was still breathing. She was whispering something.
She looked up at a gut-wrenching sound. Isabelle was outside, running toward her, screaming a warning.
Andy turned.
Too late.
The sound of the gunshots came only a microsecond before the burn. The fire in her chest, then above her left ear. She fell to the ground, the Sig falling from her grip, her forward momentum seeing it spin away from her, leaving her helpless.
* * *
The scream that exploded from Isabelle’s lips made Andy reach for her gun where it rested on the bedside table. She jumped from bed, cocking the Sig in a single, fluid movement.
She stared in stunned silence at the picture in front of her. Isabelle’s eyes were rolling back in her head, her head tossing from left to right and back again, her hands reaching out to something, someone. Her eyes were open, staring at an image that was scaring her to death.
Andy dropped the gun and jumped back in the bed. She crawled to Isabelle, sneaking in under her flailing arms to embrace her.
“I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you. Come back. Please, come back.” Andy was scared. She’d never seen anything like this before.
Someone was pounding on their door. “Andy! Isabelle?”
Not now. Can’t now.
Isabelle fought with her. Pounded her with her fists, her nails, scratching them down her neck and chest. Andy fumbled, trying to catch her hands, pinning her arms to her body. Kissing her.
“Andy! Open this door!”
Wood splintered as someone attacked the door.
Andy kissed Isabelle. Her mouth, her eyes. Breathed into her as if resuscitating her. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here. Isa. I’m here.”
A body burst through the door. Another.
René, gun in hand, followed by David.
They stopped, frozen as they watched Isabelle screaming from a primal place inside her.
Andy felt something like tears on her cheeks. “Please, Isa. Come on. Please, come back.”
Isabelle choked, coughed, spluttered. Breathed in deeply, and then started to cry.
Andy held her, rocking her gently. She looked at René and David standing helplessly at the foot of the bed, weapons in hand.
“We’re okay. I think we’re okay.”
She could feel Isabelle’s body relaxing, melting. Hear her crying. She should have never, ever made love to her.
René’s fighting stance melted as she let go of a breath she must have held for a long time. “You sure?” she whispered.
Andy nodded. Thank you, she said silently, wondering what the hell she was supposed to do now.
* * *
They sat under a steady stream of hot water. Isabelle had emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet, after which Andy had carried her to the shower so that she could stop shivering. Isabelle could feel Andy’s arms around her as she sat nestled sideways between her legs, hear the beating of her heart where she rested her head against Andy’s chest.
She wished she could get warm.
“Maybe we should undress you?” Andy whispered in her ear. “Would that be okay?”
Andy leaned back and tugged at the hem of Isabelle’s top, then slipped it over her head. The panties were more difficult, but she managed to get rid of them when Isabelle lifted her hips to aid the process.
Andy took off her own shirt, then dragged Isabelle back to the heat of her body. Blindly, Isabelle traced the goose bumps on her skin, felt the involuntary shudder when Andy captured her hand, kissing her wrist, lightly, gently.
“Are you okay?” Andy asked.
“Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse. “But can we sit here a bit longer?” Isabelle loved it here. It felt safe, whole.
“We can sit as long as you like.”
Five minutes later, the steam rising, her skin red and hot, Isabelle opened her eyes. The world was still reeling, the edges painted black, but the dizziness and disorientation had lessened.
Andy was watching her, concern etched on her face. Isabelle averted her eyes and sighed with something like contentment. Then she remembered the dream, and a fresh wave of nausea flooded her body.
“You need to eat something,” Andy said. She helped Isabelle to her feet, turned off the water, and carried her out of the shower. She sat her on the closed toilet and toweled her down.
Isabelle didn’t have the strength to fight her. She watched as Andy tenderly dried her hair, her shoulders, her arms and legs.
“Come on,” said Andy. “I’ll put you in bed while I make you something to eat.”
She lifted her again and carried her to bed.
“The usual?” Andy asked.
“Yes,” Isabelle heard herself croak the single word. “But more strawberries this time, please.”
* * *
Andy ate her cereal as she watched Isabelle eat—drink—the strange concoction her body craved following her dreams. As she ate her oatmeal and sipped her coffee, she could still smell Isabelle on her hands, sweet and salty all at once.
She wondered what Isabelle would taste like, then admonished her wayward mind and focused on drinking her black, bitter coffee, feeling herself settling into the day. Her stomach had protested against blending almost raw meat with strawberries at five in the morning, but that was her job and she was damn well going to do it.
If Isabelle could face dreaming, she could give her whatever she desired.
She watched as Isabelle ate hungrily, then slipped into a dreamless sleep until eight o’clock, Andy too nervous to take her eyes off her.
What a strange mix of fragile and fierce. Of brilliant and innocent. How would she ever forget her when it was time to leave?