The Enemy

Chapter 8

Emma

"What the hell is going on?" Emma said to herself, voice barely above a whisper. Her pulse thundered in her ears. Her stomach felt like she'd swallowed a snake. With the nurse's help, she'd rolled the captive onto his back and shackled his legs. She'd retrieved his cap and replaced it on his head so that it covered up the majority of his face.

Stapleton he'd called her. A spot above her eyebrow started to throb. Stapleton, you owe me this one. Her knees knocked together, and the nurse reached out a steadying arm.

"Inspector Huxt-Stapleton, you should sit down."

Emma's back connected with the corridor wall, and she slid down till her butt met tile. Thoughts flipped through her head at a mile a second. "No," she said. "I don't believe it." It had been a very long day at the end of three very long months. Her mind was playing tricks on her.

He breathed heavily. With a struggle he managed to sit up with his legs straight out in front of him.

She looked at him again. She couldn't help herself. She could make out unfamiliar, dark brown eyes. She took in his aristocratic nose. His voice had sent a shock straight down her spine. She was seeing a ghost. Emma looked away. She may still be passed out on her hospital bed, and this may all be some fucked up dream.

He moved. His eyes were on her.

She stared back at him. "Do you have Met identification?"

"You know I don't."

"You're not even going to attempt to deny impersonating an officer?"

"It's early Halloween."

Emma pushed herself up to standing. Ward would be here in under ten minutes. "Do you have any identification?"

"Not on me." He raised his head to look at her.

She felt her features lock into a scowl. Those brown eyes. The beard. It was all wrong. It was like talking to his evil twin or something. Evil-er. She took a step away from him. Today. Harrow. Robert returning. And now . . . this. This nightmare or fucked up hallucination. She clawed her hands through her hair.

"Stapleton—"

"Don't—" she brandished a finger at him. The gun had been safely stowed in her waistband the moment he'd run away. The moment he'd shifted the very ground beneath her feet. "Do not call me that." She pressed her palm into her forehead. "Christ," she hissed. "What the hell have you done?"

Memories she'd abandoned years ago, memories that had been haunting her dreams washed over her. Her scar, fresh. Pale eyes. The ambulance. John. A courtroom. She reclaimed her spot against the wall. She pressed her face into her hands.

Her phone buzzed. Ward was here.