Chapter 9: A Nightmare's Grip
The scream was silent, trapped in the vacuum of sleep, but it tore through her nonetheless. Maki jerked upright, a gasp clawing at her throat, her hand flying to the swell of her stomach. The sheets were tangled around her legs, damp with cold sweat. The echo of the dream pulsed behind her eyes: the polished linoleum of the police station, too bright under fluorescent lights, and a dark, spreading pool of crimson that wasn’t the right shade, wasn’t her shade, but it was his, it was Shuichi’s, seeping from a hole in his chest she couldn’t locate. His detective’s badge, glinting in the gore. His eyes, open and empty, seeing nothing.
Her breath came in short, ragged pulls. She turned, the motion sharp and panicked.
He was there. Solid. Warm. Alive.
Shuichi lay on his back, one arm thrown above his head, his mouth slightly open. A soft, ridiculous snuffling sound escaped him with each exhale. The weak pre-dawn light from the window caught the line of his jaw, the flutter of his eyelashes. He looked profoundly, stupidly peaceful. Pathetic. Helpless.
A tremor started in her right hand, fine and uncontrollable. She stared at it, this instrument that had once dispatched threats with mechanical efficiency, now shaking like a leaf over the faint, steady rise and fall of his chest. The nightmare’s cold residue clung to her spine, sharper than any blade. Logic was a distant country. The feeling was all: a yawning, possessive terror that threatened to crack her ribs.
Moving with a silence that belonged to her old life, she leaned over him. Her shadow fell across his face. He didn’t stir. Her fingers, now steady by sheer force of will, closed around his phone on the nightstand. She knew his passcode. It was her birthday, followed by the date of their first kiss, a sequence he thought was romantic and she found laughably insecure.
The screen’s glow painted her face in ghostly blue. She found the number for the precinct’s front desk, saved under “Work – Do Not Ignore.” She pressed call.
It rang twice.
“Metropolitan Police, Third Precinct, Officer Goto speaking.” The voice was tired, nasally.
Maki closed her eyes. When she spoke, her voice was not her own. It was lower, slightly raspy, tinged with professional apology. It was the voice of a harried clinic secretary. “Yes, good morning. This is Nurse Aoki calling from Hikawa Medical Clinic regarding a patient, Shuichi Saihara. He was seen in our emergency department early this morning.” She pitched her words with just the right amount of bureaucratic concern.
“Saihara? Is he alright?”
“Severe gastrointestinal distress, likely a virulent food-borne illness. Fever, dehydration. The doctor has ordered complete rest and isolation for forty-eight hours to prevent contagion. He won’t be in today, possibly tomorrow as well. A formal doctor’s note will be faxed over.” She layered the lies with smooth, clinical certainty. The chicken meatballs from his bento, so perfect, so praised, now the perfect culprit.
“Oh, jeez. Okay, thanks for letting us know. Tell him to feel better.”
“Of course. Thank you.” She ended the call and placed the phone back on the nightstand with infinite care. The act was complete. The world was now rearranged to her specifications.
The frantic energy drained from her all at once, leaving her hollow and heavy. She slid back down under the covers, turning on her side to face him. She curled into the heat of his body, fitting the curve of her belly against the dip of his waist. Her forehead came to rest against his shoulder. She was shaking again, a full-body shiver this time.
He stirred. A deep, sleepy murmur vibrated in his chest. “Mmm… Maki?” His voice was thick with sleep, blurry at the edges. His hand, clumsy with unconsciousness, flopped over and found her hip, pulling her closer. “What’s wrong? You’re trembling.”
She didn’t answer at first. She pressed her face into the worn cotton of his t-shirt, inhaling the scent of his skin, their laundry soap, him. His heartbeat was a slow, steady drum under her ear. A real heartbeat. Not the silent stillness from the dream.
“Nothing,” she whispered, the word muffled against his chest. Her voice was her own again, small and tight. “Be quiet. Go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” he mumbled, instantly compliant, his brain not yet engaged. His fingers absently stroked her hip bone through her nightgown. But then, as if her words had finally computed through the fog, he tensed slightly. “S’my alarm… work…”
“You’re staying home today.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a law of physics, declared into the dark space between them.
“I… I am?” He was awake now, just enough to be confused. He tried to lift his head, but she tightened her arm around him, pinning him down.
“Yes. I called. You’re sick. A virus. From the ramen your pathetic partner probably wishes he’d eaten.” The lie flowed easily, wrapped in her usual venom.
“But I feel fine,” he protested weakly, though he made no move to escape her hold. His hand had stilled on her hip, a warm, heavy weight.
“You don’t get a vote. Your body is conducting a hostile takeover. You have a fever.” She shifted, pressing her lips against his collarbone. Her skin was cooler than his. “See?”
He was silent for a long moment. She could feel him thinking, the sluggish, gentle process of his detective’s mind bumping against the immovable wall of her statement. He would know. Of course he would know. The lack of symptoms, the timing, the specific lie about the clinic. He’d seen her forge documents with flawless skill in another life. This was child’s play.
But he only let out a long, slow breath, his body melting back into the mattress. His arm around her tightened, pulling her flush against him until not even a sliver of light could slip between them. He buried his nose in her hair. “Okay,” he murmured, the word a surrender, a granting of pardon. He pressed a clumsy, sleep-damp kiss to her crown. “If you say so.”
Just like that, he accepted it. He chose the lie, chose the cage of her fear, and called it comfort. He drifted back towards sleep, his breathing deepening, his hold on her becoming an anchor.
The last of the nightmare’s chill evaporated. The tension seeped from her muscles, replaced by a liquid, overwhelming fatigue. Her limbs felt like lead. She molded herself to him, every curve and angle slotting into place as if designed for it. Her trembling ceased. In the grey dawn, wrapped in the familiar, awkward warmth of him, Maki Harukawa allowed her eyes to close. The only sound was his heartbeat, and the soft, synchronous rhythm of their breathing.