Page 124 of Fake Game

I still at the foreign voice.

“It’s fine,” Jackson soothes, pulling away and rubbing my shoulders. “It’s the doctor.”

I look past him and can kind of make out the white coat on the person standing at the foot of the bed.

“I can’t see,” I whisper to him.

He frowns before understanding dawns. “Shit.”

I reach out and squeeze his forearm. “Who else is in the room?”

“Just Parker. Sydney took Aleks and Lee back to the hotel for the night. I’ll get her to bring your contacts when she comes back.”

“What happened?”

Jackson’s lips turn into a thin line. “You should speak with the doctor first.”

My lower lip trembles. “Okay.”

The man asks me a few simple questions, checking that I’m cognitive and that my reactions are fine. When he shines the light in my eyes, I wince a bit because it makes that pounding headache feel so much worse.

“Am I okay?”

“Your symptoms are what we would expect after what you’ve been through. That headache should clear in the next day or so, but you can take pain relievers to deal with the worst of it.”

“And what did I go through?”

He pauses for a beat before answering, “One moment, let me get the officer so she can hear your statement.”

“Officer?”

The nausea returns like a whirlpool in my stomach as the doctor quickly shuffles out of the room. I try not to let the panic resurface, focusing on breathing steady inhales. My hands seek out Jackson’s again, and he cups them together, steadying the sea inside me. The doctor returns with a fuzzy blob next to him, and I’m starting to get seriously frustrated that I can’t fucking see them properly.

“Hi, Deirdre, I’m Detective Layton.”

I stiffen at my name.

How many people know?

“Hi.”

“Can I ask what the last thing you remember before waking up is?”

I squeeze Jackson’s hands, running my fingers over them nervously. “I went back to the green room after the meet and greet, and then Jackson and I went to explore the show floor.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

I frown, trying to remember what happened, but there’s a giant hole. I can see myself leaving the green room, but that’s it. I try to focus. I can see myself holding Jackson’s hand but…

I groan, bringing my fingers up to my eyebrows, and begin massaging them. “That’s it. That’s the last thing I remember—going onto the show floor.”

Why is my brain blanking?

“Really?” Concern laces Jackson’s voice.

“Mr. Lau,” the detective reprimands.

“Sorry.”

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