When HEROES don't come HOME

Chapter Thirty-Six — Cold Awakening

The cold bit first. Not air-conditioner cold, but the dense, sterile chill that clung to stainless steel and never warmed, no matter how long a body lay on it. Emily stirred, a sharp ache exploding behind her eyes. She groaned, tried to lift a hand, and the sound of her palm sliding against metal echoed back at her like she had touched the wall of a tomb. Her lashes fluttered. A white ceiling above. Fluorescent tubes buzzing. The smell—antiseptic, steel, faint rot. A morgue. Her pulse surged. She sat bolt upright, too fast, and the slab under her squealed. The world tilted sideways. A bolt of nausea knifed through her skull and her stomach lurched. She clutched the table edge, trying to breathe. She was in her pajamas. Not her uniform, not the clothes she wore to Lang’s office. Pajamas: the soft shirt and pants she had put on after her shower. Her mind stuttered. She remembered pulling the blanket over herself. Then—shadows at the door. The crash of impact against her temple. Hands dragging her. A needle in her neck. Blackness. Her eyes darted around. Silver drawers lined the wall, each handle tagged. Another gurney stood nearby, a sheet drawn over a shape she refused to look at. The clock on the wall ticked loud, indifferent. The door clicked. Her muscles reacted before thought. She slid off the slab, bare feet hitting linoleum, every nerve firing panic. The door eased open. A man stepped in, tall frame filling the doorway. Another followed, white coat, glasses flashing under the light. Reeves. And the coroner she vaguely remembered from a past scene, her face pale in memory of death. Emily’s chest flooded with heat. Fury shoved through fear. She lunged. “You bastard!” Her voice cracked, wild. “What did you do to me?” She slammed into him with more will than strength. Reeves caught her wrists, holding her still. Not rough, but firm. “Emily—stop,” he said, voice low, controlled. “It’s me. Breathe.” “I woke up in a morgue!” she screamed, shaking against his grip. “A morgue!” His eyes didn’t flinch. “Yes. But alive. That’s the difference.” She wrenched once, twice, then sagged back, breath ragged. Her palms braced on the steel slab. Her eyes burned with rage and confusion. “Why?” she demanded, voice sharp. “Why am I here? What the hell happened?” Reeves exhaled, long, weary. He raked a hand through his hair, then leaned against the counter like a man preparing for interrogation. “They tried to kill you tonight,” he said simply. “No s**t,” she snapped. “They wanted it to look like suicide,” he continued, ignoring her bite. “Gas, windows sealed, a note on the counter. It would’ve matched what Lang was already writing into your record.” Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean—Lang?” Reeves looked at her squarely. “He’s not just a psychologist. He’s their scribe. He lays the groundwork. He writes the file that says you’re unstable. That you’re haunted by grief. That you can’t sleep, that you dream about your husband, that you want to join him and the baby. So when they put you on the floor of your own kitchen, the paperwork already agrees.” Emily’s throat closed. She remembered the way Lang had scribbled notes without looking at her, the questions about nightmares, the way he suggested pills before she’d even finished answering. Her voice came out small but sharp. “So all of it—what I told him, what he wrote—it was never about helping me. It was about killing me.” Reeves didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened. “It was about explaining you away. That’s how they cover their tracks.” Her fists curled on the steel. “And you knew?” “I suspected.” He rubbed his face. “After what you told me about him, I knew they’d move soon. I stayed close to your place tonight. Call it paranoia.” Her breath hitched. “You saw them go in?” “Yes.” “And you just let them?” His eyes snapped to hers, dark. “If I’d gone in then, you’d be dead. Four on one—they’d have put a bullet in your skull before I crossed the hall. I waited. Watched them leave. Then I went in.” Her stomach turned. She pictured herself on the kitchen floor, unconscious, the hiss of gas filling the room. “And?” she whispered. Reeves’s voice was flat. “I lit the match they didn’t plan for. Left a lighter on the table. Spark did the rest.” Her eyes widened. “The explosion.” He nodded once. “It gave me cover. They thought the job finished. I carried you out the back, brought you here. My friend—” he nodded toward the coroner “—helped me make sure they didn’t inject anything worse than sedative.” Emily turned, eyes darting to the coroner. The woman adjusted her glasses, calm but firm. “Sedative,” she confirmed. “Heavy dose. You’ll be foggy for hours, maybe a day. But it’ll pass. Nothing permanent.” Emily’s head shook slowly. Questions spiraled too fast. “You—” her voice broke “—you risked blowing up the whole building?” “I risked what I had to.” His voice was steel. “It was either leave you to suffocate quietly or give us a chance to fool them.” She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. “You dragged me out of a burning building?” “Through the back stairwell. Smoke, alarms—I had minutes. Less. But yes.” Her eyes flooded. She tried to blink it away, but the tears brimmed anyway. She dropped her hand and glared at him, as if anger could keep them down. “Why?” The word cracked. “Why would you do that? You don’t even—” “Because you were alive,” he cut in, voice fierce. “And I don’t bury people alive.” The silence after hit hard. Her chest heaved. Her throat closed. She wanted to argue, to throw the rage back at him, but the words caught. Instead she heard her own breath hitching, uneven, shaking. Reeves shifted, softer now. “Emily, listen. They will try again. Hudson, Voss, Lang—they won’t stop. But you’re not alone. Not anymore.” Her lip trembled. “You’re saying this like it’s a promise.” “It is.” Her control shattered. She lunged forward, grabbing his shirt, burying her face against his chest. The tears came hot, unrelenting. Sobs ripped through her, shaking her shoulders. For a moment he froze, his arms half-raised like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. Then slowly they closed around her. Strong. Steady. Solid. “It’s okay,” he murmured against her hair. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” The coroner, still by the counter, observed quietly. Her voice was soft, matter-of-fact. “Better this,” she said. “Better tears than silence. Silence means she’s broken.” Reeves held Emily tighter, his chin against her hair. “You’re not broken,” he whispered. “And I won’t let them finish what they started.” Emily clutched him harder, tears soaking his shirt, the morgue’s cold finally breaking against the heat of another human being who refused to let her go.