Into the Specter

Chapter 13

"Quit moving." Flip's deep morning voice hits just the right spot in the back of your mind. He's knelt on one knee by the couch, stitching your leg up.

"Quit stabbing me."

A short yelp bursts out of your mouth when Flip sticks the needle particularly hard in retaliation to your words.

"It's called stitches," Flip says in a sarcastic voice. He shakes his head and focuses back on your thigh, using his thumb and forefinger to pinch the skin together.

His hands are so steady. He's done this before and you don't think cops usually have much experience stitching wounds up.

You sigh and drop your head back down to the cushions.

"How many times have you done this?"

A few seconds of silence go by. You hide a wince when he threads another stitch through your skin.

"Hid a fugitive in my home? Not many, why?"

"You know what I mean, you're suspiciously adequate at stitching a girl's leg up."

"Hm." Flip doesn't look up.

When your leg inevitably twitches again, he pinches your thigh with his left hand.

"Ow," you say in a monotonous voice.

"I have to get to work, can you handle wrapping it up?"

You nod and say, "Oh right, I escaped."

He finishes the last stitch and puts down the needle driver, tying the sterilized medical thread off.

"That's one way to put it," he sighs. Flip looks at you. Your fist is clenched, resting on your forehead, face in pain even though you've hardly made a peep.

This morning, Flip woke you up by flicking your nose and saying, in a voice much too loud for 6 AM, that he needed to do stitches.

Once he and Ron had gotten you back onto the couch last night, you passed out from exhaustion. The two detectives had talked long into the night, figuring out how to handle work tomorrow. Ron wasn't alerted of any security alarms so whoever attacked you somehow disabled them. It's going to be a shit show once somebody realizes you're gone.

He clears his throat and you bring your fist away from your forehead to look at him.

"Who did this to you?" he asks for the second time and even though he's done stitching, his hand is still resting on your thigh.

You swallow nervously at the drop in his tone.

"I didn't see his face," you say, maintaining Flip's eye contact.

"Did he say anything?" You feel his hand clutch your leg tighter and you breathe in.

You bite the inside of your bottom lip, debating on whether to tell him anything. You're stuck here anyway and decide there's no harm in it.

"Something about, protecting secrets, that's all," you say, voice dropping in volume, trying to shove the memories of last night deep into the recesses of your brain.

"Nothing else? Did you recognize his voice?" There's anger building in Flip's chest replacing the panic that he felt last night.

"No! Like I said, I was pretty busy-"

"Did you see how he got in?"

"No, I didn't, Flip, he left the opposite way you came in."

"It's so easy to hit an artery in the leg, he had to have known what he was doing. It was a warning-" His hand grips your thigh so tight that you wince.