Page 3 of Crossing the Brooklyn Briggs
She groans. “Go home, Miss Briggs. Sleep on it. You’ll know what to do in the morning. And luckily for you, no kids tomorrow!”
Thank goodness for teacher work days.
October 11
When I wake up the next morning, I know without opening my eyes that I’m not going to be functional today, let alone able to make any sort of moves in Mark’s chess game. This migraine must have crept in during the night, and one small movement of my head sends my stomach churning. Yay. I won’t be making it into school today, but at least I don’t have kids to worry about. It just means my Saturday will be spent doing all the work I should be doing today.
Who really needs a weekend, anyway?
I send a text to Principal Cheng to let her know I won’t make it in, all the while rejoicing in the fact that I don’t have to figure out a sub. I can just go back to sleep and hopefully wake to a world that isn’t blurred at the edges. It’s not the worst migraine I’ve ever had, but it’s definitely up there.
Several hours later, I can open my eyes without wanting to puke, which is a nice improvement. Though still a little dizzy, I slowly sit up and take a moment to decide if I can function enough to make some food. It’s a bit iffy. I should at least drink some water, though, so I inch out of bed and shuffle to the kitchen as smoothly as I can, eyes pinched shut until I need to see in the cupboard. I don’t like that I’ve had enough migraines that I’m able to walk around with my eyes closed, but unfortunately that’s my reality.
Once I’ve had a little to drink, I shuffle back to my room and pause at the window to peek up at the painfully bright sky. One of these days I won’t live in a basement, and I won’t have to practically press myself against the window just to get a glimpse of the weather. I feel like a prisoner down here, begging for a peek at the sun even though it’s only going to make the headache worse.
I don’t know why I bother checking. This is Sun City, where it is always pleasant and rains twice a month to keep the desert somewhat green. The sky is blue as ever and taunting me because there’s no way I’m going out into the blinding sunshine when I can barely stand to open my eyes enough to look in the first place.
A melodic whistle fills the air half a second before an entire human man drops into the window well from out of nowhere. I scream and stumble back. My foot catches on something, and I go crashing to the ground, my head hitting a bookcase on the way down.
Chapter Two
Brooklyn
I hate vivid dreams, especiallyones where I end up in crisis. Like, who needs a dream where an attack is coming in from the window? Not me. No, thank you. I’ll deal with my stress the normal way—eating cereal for every other meal and pretending I’ll use the yoga mat sitting in the corner, all the while knowing I am too wound up to do yoga despite knowing full well that that is what yoga is designed to fix. It’s a vicious cycle.
I groan, surprised by the way I can almost feel a lump forming on the back of my head. I’ve never been more grateful to wake up from a—
“You’re awake!”
I sit straight up and promptly tip over sideways, but a hand grabs my arm. A huge hand. Warm. Callused. Skin dark and smooth against my pale shoulder.
“Easy,” a gentle voice says. “Don’t move too quickly.”
Why am I staring at a hand when I need to be getting a good look at the man who apparentlyisn’tfrom a dream and is likely going to murder me and hide my body in a field where no one but vultures will find me for days? I look up, squinting but ready to memorize his face so I can come back as a ghost and inspire a sketch artist to lead my family to my killer.
Okay, well, a murderer should not have a face likethat.
He smiles, white teeth gleaming in the dimness of my bedroom. I don’t know where to focus first—on his straight nose? Striking jawline? Warm brown eyes? There’s something familiar about him, but I can’t place what it is. Maybe he’s been stalking the house for a while… My stomach rolls, and I swallow back the building nausea.
“Are you going to murder me?” I ask stupidly. A murderer wouldn’t answer that question honestly!
He pulls his hand away, holding both up to show me he’s unarmed. That only goes so far when strangling is a pretty common form of murder. “No killing for me today,” he says. “Seriously, Brooklyn, are you okay?”
He knows my name! Does that make this premeditated? Where did I leave my phone? Maybe I can sneak a call to my brother Chad and he’ll have one of his police buddies here in no time. Or I guess I could just call the police myself and save a step…
Clearing his throat, the man sits back on his knees and grimaces a little. “I feel so bad about scaring you, but I didn’t expect you to be home.”
“So, you were planning to burgle me before it turned into a robbery?”
He cocks his head. “Aren’t those the same thing?”
“You can’t rob a house. You can only rob a person.” And why am I explaining this to a thief/murderer/creep who knows my name and my schedule? I am way too dizzy to be dealing with this right now.
“Seems like you didn’t hit your head too hard,” he mutters, and his fingers rise toward me before stopping as soon as I flinch. “I want to make sure you’re not bleeding,” he says, concern wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows. “May I?”
Absolutely not.
“Would you relax?” he says with a chuckle. “I’m not going to hurt you, Queens.”
