I had time, after my trip to the hospital, to go home and rest for a while. The nurses had insisted that I take back my jacket, whose sleeves were wiped with dried blood, and I had given in; before finally going home in the morning, and throwing it in the garbage.
I wanted to get rid of it at all costs, so as not to have the strange metallic smell that leaked out of it assault my nostrils. The color that I hated so much had disappeared, the blood having become brown by oxidizing in contact with the air.
But I had then stopped in my motion, without knowing why. The jacket, which I held in my left hand, hung over the wide-open pedal garbage can.
I didn't know what had made me do it, but I had changed my mind at the last minute, deciding to fold the jacket and store it in the back of my closet; since I couldn't wash the stains that were all over it.
Taking a shower, I stared at the palm of my right hand with a fine line running through it where I could clearly see the stitches that had been administered to me. I was lucky that the wound was not too deep, otherwise, I could have had serious mobility problems with that limb. But I had to refrain from using that hand too much for the next few weeks while cleaning the wound regularly.
Mr. Chiba was really going to give me a hard time if it affected my work for long. For now, I could not shake the hand at all.
However, I kept staring at the stitched part of my hand, unable to help but draw a parallel with the identical marks I had seen on the detective's body; all around her neck, and on two of her fingers.
Did this mean that she had sewn those parts back on?
The warm water from the showerhead trickled from my head to my back as I thought about her words.
"I can't die."
It was kind of bitchy to throw that at me like that, without explanation.
Did it mean that she literally couldn't die, or that nothing scared her?
Because if she really couldn't die...
"I'm a zombie."
I leaned forward to rest my forehead against the shower tile, shaking my head to gently hit the wall several times in a row.
What an idiot I had been. Saying something like that, to someone who might have been a real zombie. I was ashamed, really.
No. I had to confirm that first. But the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
I had run over her and she had become headless. Something that I was now sure was not a product of my imagination.
She had been stabbed and had gotten up as if nothing had happened. Something I could see on the spot, and could not refute.
This was no magic trick.
It was real.
As real as the blade that had cut my arm and hand.
Stepping out of the shower and wrapping a towel around my waist, I walked past the mirror hanging over the sink, and saw that my black eye was more yellow than blue now. It still hurt a little as I felt the outline of the ridiculous stain. In a few days, it would be a bad memory.
I changed into a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, before turning on the TV to watch the news.
There was a weather update, then the local news. A house fire, a missing young woman, and the results of a poll on the legitimacy of the police in cases involving crimes committed by children. Then the whole news loop was about the latest mishap of a company director. This made me give up paying attention to the program.
There wasn't much to interest me on TV anyway.
I took my cell phone, and saw that I already had new messages.
One from Mr. Chiba, asking me to check my e-mails, although it was the weekend, and one from the detective.
With curiosity, I opened the conversation history, and could read the content of her last text message.
'When you're home and a bit rested, come to this address. We'll be waiting for you there.'
And like her previous message, a screenshot showing an address was attached to the text.
I recognized the location as the hotel where Ms. Munehara had been taken. She probably wanted to talk about things related to the case, and that piqued my curiosity, and I texted her back to find out what time I should report there.
'Get some rest first, then come in around 2pm.' She replied.
I had already spent several hours in the emergency room, and even after taking my time to get home and make myself comfortable, it was only 6:00 a.m. Did that mean I had to wait all those hours without doing anything?
I didn't like it, but I could use this time to see exactly what my supervisor wanted from me.
Sitting down at my laptop, I turned it on, and went to check my e-mails.
And indeed, among some of the emails that were author feedbacks or manuscript submissions, was a message object that stood out from the bunch.
'Osagawa T. / Nakatsuki On-Site Promotion'.
Why was there the name of the author I had gone to see the day before?
Anxiously, I opened the message, and read carefully the body of the e-mail.
It seemed that Master Osagawa liked me, and that a TV show project had decided to include him in its program. Mr. Nakatsuki was the editor in charge of Master Osagawa, and Mr. Chiba thought it would be interesting to involve me in the project to assist my senior.
The project seemed to be quite time-consuming and would even take me away from the office again for a few days; it included an on-the-spot interview with the various guests, and activities to get them all involved and on stage together.
I had never watched the program, so I didn't really know what to expect, other than what was written in the promotional proposal sent by the TV station.
Maybe with these few hours ahead of me, I could learn more about the program, as well as find out more about what would be expected of me.
In any case, it would certainly prevent me from thinking about everything that had happened during the night. I had never experienced so many disturbing and dangerous things in such a short period of time. Or even in my entire life.
In addition, the panic attack I had experienced had also left me reeling; and just thinking about the blood on my clothes was giving me a huge headache.
I had always had migraines, or the urge to vomit, from seeing that particular shade of red. It was something I couldn't explain to myself, just like my lack of emotionality. And there it was, without me being able to do anything about it.
Yet last night my heart had beaten faster than ever. I had rushed to the apartment where the detective was in danger with an energy I didn't know I had.
And I told myself that I had made the right choice. I had found the person who could help me solve my problem.