Desire & Blood - The Thorne Siblings

36. Barefoot

The wail rose and fell in pitch, but it wouldn't stop. It was all urgency.

Motion tugged at my body, like waves cradling me. No, not waves, everything was dry here, and it had texture, not like the ocean. I was lying on my back, something soft and warm below me. My throat was parched. My lips burned.

No visuals.

Opening my eyes hurt, but it brought light.

I groaned.

"Hey, Miss, do you hear me?" A man with a round head and a cherub's face framed in red curls watched me from above. From the heavens? No, he was closer than that.

"Water." I was dying for it.

He moved out of sight, reappeared with a concerned frown, put a hand behind my head, and lifted it. A white bottle was in his hand. He placed it against my lips, gently. I drank, eager gulps to drench the dry waste that was my insides.

"Enough," he said. "You've got to take it slow, or it won't stay down. You're severely dehydrated. We've hooked you up to an IV. You'll be better, soon."

My brain fumbled with clumsy, short fingers to make sense of his words, but there were too many of them—and some strange ones, too.

Movement again, the noise of an engine, and the wail, too—an ambulance?

"What's your name?" he asked.

Finally, something I could make sense of, bless the curly guy.

"Anderson... Anne Anderson."

My mind's fingers found something else that made sense. The cherub wasn't a cherub at all unless I was dead. And I wouldn't be thirsty if I were dead. The man was that English singer—what was his name again? Any second, he'd get out his guitar for me and sing that he's in love with my body.

The guitar and the song never materialized, yet sleep did.

~~~

"We don't know how she got washed up on the beach. A beachcomber called us... She's dehydrated and has a couple of bruises, but she'll recover. I guess she'll wake up within the next few hours." The words came in a woman's voice, a high-pitched one.

"Excellent. When can she be moved?" A man, haughty accent.

Go away, voices. I wanted to sleep.

"Hard to say, Detective... tomorrow, maybe."

Detective? As in police? I opened one of my lids.

A ceiling above me.

I turned my head and my eye towards where the words had come from.

A stout, dark-skinned woman with short, gray hair and a white coat stood at a window. Beside here was a tall, thin man in a dark leather jacket, frowning at a tablet she held.

"Excellent," he said. "She'll need a guard... I'll send someone over. Can our man be stationed in the corridor?"

"Sure, Detective." She nodded.

He dug a card from a pocket and handed it to her. "Lovely. I'll be off then, the guard will arrive in a few minutes. If anything comes up, give me a ring. The number of our station is on the card. Just ask for me... Shawn Shortbitten, or my assistant, Monica Mendez."

Shawn Shortbitten—I knew the name. He had conducted the investigation into Thomas Thorne's death. And he was the one Theresa and Homer didn't trust.