Chapter 6

• Emma's eyelid fluttered, then flew open. She was covered in a cold sweat, her heart pounding as she glanced around the room, paranoid that the horror in her dream may have followed her back. Fortunately, she was alone.
• A low groan escaped her lips as she tried to turn on the bed. She was hurting, but she hadn't realized it until then.
• She stared down at herself. She was still fully dressed. She had been sleeping on her bed, in her brightly colored room flooded with light. But something wasn't right.
• The first indication of that was her bruised body. Her head ached with pain and her neck had weird scratch marks. She didn't remember getting into a fight or changing into the pajamas she had woken up with. The second was her bedsheet, which was covered in blood stains.
• Looking around her room, her eyes caught her overall, lying close to the bathroom door, and the memories of her night flooded her mind instantly.
• She hadn't been dreaming. It was all real. The attack, the creatures, the man who had saved her. They were all real. She had managed to infiltrate the warehouse, but she had been attacked. She had almost been killed until a man saved her. Her mind darted back and forth between the images in her head. No, how could they be real?
• How long had she been sleeping? Her mouth felt dry as she swallowed, trying to wet her parched throat. Who had brought her back to her apartment? Could it have been the man who saved her?
• She searched her mind for any memories of how she had arrived back at her apartment but found none. The last thing she could remember was staring at a pair of dark eyes. She remembered how the man had crept towards her silently and peered at her. That was her last memory. She must have passed out, she thought. And he must have brought her back.
• Surprisingly, the thought of being carried in his arms, against his powerful chest, unaware as she had passed out, aroused fear in her and caused her to tremble. She looked down at the mussed white bedsheet stained with blood and a thousand thoughts crossed her mind again.
• Who was he? How did he get in? How did he know where she lived? How did he know she was in danger? Why did he save her? Who were the people back at the warehouse? Were they human? How did they transform into hideous creatures? Would the man return?
• She felt dizzy as she tried to wrap her head around the mysterious things that had happened to her. She licked her sore lips, tasting blood upon them as they burst and cracked. She needed something to drink.
• Sitting up slowly, her head and body erupting with pain, she muttered a foul curse. She had wanted to fall back in bed, but she needed a drink and most importantly, she needed to get to work. She didn't intend to lose her job over her impulsive decision to kill herself.
• She had defiled her boss and partner to infiltrate the warehouse, hoping to dig up some truth about her parent's murder. But she had only managed to get herself almost killed.
• Allen was right. She was incapable of pursuing her parent's case. Especially on her own. No matter how much she tried, she could only get herself killed. She was a low-level criminal investigator who always needed backup during emergency attacks. She couldn't handle any case on her own; she was either too distracted or clumsy. That's why she had been paired with Allen, the best and only detective who accepted to work with her.
• But somehow, she had managed to make him regret his decision every day. She remembered when she had lost a hot pursuit of a suspect because she had been too busy apologizing to a man she bumped into. Or the one time she had almost been shot trying to convince a homicide suspect to release his gun. Her clumsy and unprofessional mistakes were numerous. Too numerous that they were almost driving her partner insane.
• Now, she had not only tried to sneak into a warehouse, but she had also managed to get herself brutally injured before a working day. And with all the disaster, she was not an inch closer to solving the mystery of her parent's death.
• She sighed, accepting her failure, as she staggered away from her bed. The clock on her bedside desk ticked eleven o'clock. Gracious! She was four hours late.
• Crossing slowly to the other end of her room, she paused as she caught her image in the full-length mirror. Was that what she looked like? She took three steps towards the mirror, then sucked in her breath in horror.
• Emma knew she had been hurt and that she had been bruised all over. But she had no idea she looked that bad. Her brown hair was a mess, her eyes were hidden behind dark purple eye bags, her nose was slightly swollen, and her lips were burst in several places. And yes, she was bruised severely in various places.
• She gasped, realizing she must have looked worst before she was brought back. It was only then that the knowledge that he had seen her naked hit her. She almost cried out in embarrassment, but she only leaned against the wall, too weak to let out her emotions.
• Acknowledging she was going to be fired if she continued to dwell on the past event, she peeled herself from the wall and headed for her bathroom.
• It was small but luxurious, at least to the taste she could afford and what her paycheck could support. She grabbed her toothbrush, her fingers trembling as she grazed it with toothpaste. She had rushed in brushing her teeth, wincing as the brush rubbed against her swollen gums. She had been brutally battered.
• A moment later, she stepped into the steaming hot water of the shower. The rush of water felt good and bad against her skin, like a massage against the tired muscles of her back and shoulders, but also burning her inflamed cuts and bruises. She washed her light-brown hair thoroughly, emphasizing the bleeding spots on her head, which had left little stains of dried blood. Then she washed it again-just to be certain.
• Turning off the water after washing her body, Emma got out of the shower. It took her nearly thirty minutes to get dressed. Her inability to find clothes to cover her many noticeable bruises had almost driven her insane with anger.
• She shifted uncomfortably as she tugged at the turtle-neck undershirt she wore. It was the best thing she could wear to hide her bruises. Even in the summer, she wore long sleeves and coats, so she was certain she wouldn't look weird. She tugged at the turtle-neck again, concerned by the little exposure of her skin.
• She also wore a pair of black pants which fell below her ankle. She didn't, however, feel like they did, she just about felt like her entire legs were exposed.
• She applied heavy makeup and had even done the strange task of masking her eye bags with foundation, but they couldn't take away the bruises and swellings that marred her face. She looked ridiculous with her makeup, but far preferably better than no makeup and visible eye bags.
• Emma tried not to think about the pain and consequences her actions had caused her. She should be relieved that she was alive, and she had her head firmly stitched to her head and nobody had ripped it off. The thought was repulsive enough, and her stomach twisted as she remembered the stench of the blood.
• Tottering out of her room, she found her way to the kitchen. Food had always been her guilty pleasure. Making herself instant oatmeal with Cranberries and pecans, she devoured her breakfast in minutes. She was starving, but barely had enough time to improve something.
• Ten minutes later, Emma was in her car, driving to the small police department in Plymouth, Minnesota. A thousand things were running through her mind, but the most important was cooking up an attractive, believable lie for her boss. She wondered if she had been fired already, but the thought did bad things to her tummy, so she decided to push it away.
• After some minutes of driving, she pulled into the circular parking lot of the department and cut the engine.
• She studied the building, fear rising inside her. If she got fired, she would be dead broke within a month and she was certainly sure it would be extremely difficult to land another detective track with her track record. She gave a deep sigh as she prepared herself for the worst. It was one o'clock.