The Displaced Detective: A Body Hopper Tale - Part 2
by Limbo's Mistress

The car's tires squealed in protest as the sedan made a sharp left turn, moving away from the hospital at a speed that was a bit more than the posted limit.

"Sorry about that," the man who’d stolen by body said, focusing on the road before him. "I just figured we might want to put some distance between us and anyone who might be coming after us as quickly as possible."

I responded to his apology with just the slightest of nods, continuing to stare blankly at him while the gears and wheels in my newly blonde-coiffed head whirled and grabbed for purchase. The bombshell he’d dropped on me still had me reeling.

After a few minutes of weaving through the sparse traffic, he navigated the vehicle onto the highway, then glanced over at me.

"What?" he asked, his brow … my brow … crinkling.

My eyes never left his face. "What the hell did you mean when you said this body was corrupting my mind? Particularly the part where you said I was turning into her.”

He shook his head and changed lanes.

"Now’s not really a good time, John," he said. "Even if the police haven’t started huntring for us yet, I promise you the Order definitely is. I promise to tell you everything as soon as we get someplace safe.” He quickly looked back to the road. “At least, everything that I know.”

I continued to stare at him for a few more seconds, then sighed loudly.

"Fine," I said grudgingly. My new voice made it sound more like a protesting whine. “Where is this safe place you’re taking us?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Well, not aloud anyways. However, his face spoke volumes. I’d learned to read people fairly well over the years. And if there was one person I could read better than anyone was myself.

“Uh, I haven’t figured that out yet.”

I rolled my eyes. Then wanted to slap myself for doing it. Shaking my head, I turned sideways in the seat.

"Well, we can't go to my place. That's the first anyone with half a brain would begin their search.”

“Makes sense,” Not-Me replied.

“I also get the feeling that if the Order knew who you were before you hijacked Little Miss Sunshine’s body, we can’t go back to your place.”

He nodded, his eyes continually flicking up to the rear-view mirror as if to check to see if we had picked up a tail. Though I was a bit skeptical that a civilian would even know what to look for.

"Thirdly, even if we had a clue who this body belongs to, we couldn’t go to her house. I have a feeling her family would freak out if she returned from the hospital with a strange man in tow.”

“What about an out of the way motel? Something off the highway?”

“No good. It’s not just a matter of finding a place that wouldn’t raise an eyebrow at an older man booking a room with an underage Lolita. It’s a matter of cash flow. The only thing in that wallet in your pocket other than plastic is a five.”

“Okay, so we just keep driving until we get a couple of states away.”

I shook my head, leaning over to point at the dash. More precisely, at the needle of the fuel gauge. It currently hovered just above E.

"We’ll run out of gas before then. If you try to fill up with my cards, it’ll be as bad as if you tried to use them for a motel. Might as well, like, send up a signal flare.”

He sighed. “Okay. Since you've been nice enough to point out all the places we can't go, do you have any ideas about where we can hide?"

I turned and stared out the windshield at the highway, trying to figure out where we were. I’d been a little too distracted by the unfamiliar sensations coming from my new body, as well as the nagging in the back of my thoughts that hinted that the longer I was trapped here, the worse for my psyche it was going to be.

When I spotted a sign informing us of an exit a few miles ahead, the possible sanctuary location leapt into my mind.

"Yes," I said, pointing at the sign. "Take that exit and turn right at the bottom. I just thought of a place that is, like, totes perfect.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw him glance over at me and frown, but I was too focused on getting us off the street to be concerned with whatever it was that was bothering him.

"Hey, what about them tracking this car? Can they do that?"

I shook my head. The sedan was my personal vehicle, registered with the police, but titled in my name. As such, it didn't have the usual GPS devices customarily installed in patrol cars. There was a radio, but it was currently turned off and posed no threat of giving away our position.

“Shit!” I gasped, turning to look at him. “My phone. It should still be in the inside pocket of my jacket.”

Not-Me took one hand off the wheel to fish around inside the coat. A second later, his hand came out holding my phone. He held it in my direction.

"You planning on calling someone who can help us?"

"Nope!" I said, grabbing the device from him. I pressed the button that rolled down my window. Then, without so much as a "vaya con Dios", I flung the phone into the night air.

Hopefully, someone behind us would run over it and turn it into a pile of useless plastic and circuitry.

"What the hell did you do that for?" he asked.

I rolled the window up, looking over at him with a smirk that felt more sassy than smug.

"They could have used that to locate us," I said, crossing my arms over my chest. The feeling of budding breasts pushing against my forearms was both unnaturally distracting and uncomfortably familiar.

"Oh, I thought that was just something from the movies."

I rolled my eyes again. Thank goodness I was here. Otherwise, we’d get picked up within an hour.

The man wearing my face changed lanes and veered off down the ramp. At the bottom, he merged to the right and continued on.

“Okay, go about another half a mile, then turn left at the light. About three miles or so down that road, you’ll see a large stone sign for a community called ‘Lakewood Estates’. That’s where we’re headed.”

After what seemed to be an incredibly long, fifteen minute drive later, we pulled to a stop in front of a pair of immense wrought-iron gates.

"Now what?"

I shook off the errant thoughts which had been coursing through my mind and turned to see him looking at me with that same uncomfortable expression.

"What?" I asked, feeling really annoyed about his constant, non-verbal judgments.

He lifted his arm and pointed at me. Well, more like at the side of my head. Unsettling enough, it took me a few seconds to realize what he was indicating.

During the ride, as I’d been lost in introspection about everything that’d happened since I’d enjoyed the view of the barista’s pert bottom, I’d apparently begun to twirl a thick cord of honey gold around and around my index finger. The action had provided me with such a sense of comfort, and I’d been so engrossed with other things, I hadn't even realized I was doing it.

But now that it had been pointed out, I immediately yanked my finger away, painfully tugging on the entangled hair.

"Fucking shit!" I yelled, the word sounding comically horrible to me due to the youthful high-pitched tone. “Dammit, that hurt!”

Not-Me simply shrugged and pointed at the security keypad next to his window. "I hope you have the code for this thing. Otherwise, we're going to be up the creek without a paddle."

Still reeling from the latest slap in the face that I wasn't currently who I was supposed to be, I glared at him. "Duh! It's 5-8-7-4-2-1-1."

He arched a brow, then rolled down his window and input the numbers I’d given. A second later, the red light on the front of the panel turned green and the heavy gate blocking our way rolled slowly open. My companion shifted back into drive and pulled forward past the entrance.

"At the end of this street, turn right,” I said, pointing at the road. “Then go to the lone house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Number sixty-five-oh-nine."

He nodded. "Got it."

I tapped my finger against my lip for a moment, then sighed. "You know, you never did tell me your name."

"My name?" he asked, cutting his eyes over at me.

I nodded, trying to look relaxed instead of the impatience I felt. His answering a question with a question was getting on my last freaking nerve. "Well, I sure as hell am not call you 'Jack'," I said.

“Jack?”

I sighed. “It’s a nickname for ‘John’. The guys at the Academy started calling me that and I’ve been ‘Jack’ ever since.”

He took a second or two before answering. "You can call me Matthew, I suppose." He tapped his chest. "That's who I was before I became her ... I mean, you."

I narrowed my eyes at him, clearly seeing the holes in his explanation. "But that wasn't who you've always been, right? The investment banker the Order came after this morning? That wasn’t your original body, was it?”

"No. I've only been him for the past five years."

"Oh," I said, injecting a healthy dose of sarcasm into the words. Amazingly enough, my new voice was perfect for conveying the snark. "So, do you just wake up one day, decide you’re tired of your current life, and just go out and steal someone else’s? Like boosting a car when you want a new ride?”

"It's not like that, Jack." His hands tightened on the steering wheel as his jaw visibly clenched, making me worry he was going to break one of my crowns. Damned things were more expensive than a Prada bag. After a second, he relaxed a bit and sighed. “Look, can we just table this discussion until we're at this safe spot of yours?"

"Whatever," I replied with a huff. When our destination came into sight, I pointed at the front of the large house. “Pull into the garage." Before he could point out the fact that the door was currently closed, I opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small remote control.

With a flick of my pink-lacquered thumb, still looking kind of cute, I pressed the button, and the windowless door rolled up to reveal an area spacious enough to fit three of my sedans inside with little chance of them bumping into each other. Other than neatly organized racks of assorted items lining the far wall and a huge chest freezer dominating one corner, the only thing visible in the garage was a shiny black Humvee.

Matthew pulled to a stop next to the SUV, shifted into park, then looked over at me.

"Who's house is this?" There was no mistaking the fact that he was impressed.

"An old Army buddy." Opening my door, I climbed out of the car. "Not many people know about him, and he's out of town for the next week or so on a deep-sea fishing expedition in the Gulf of Mexico."

"You just happen to have a key to his house?" The skepticism in the question rang like a bell.

I shrugged. "I'm supposed to be feeding his cat." My shoes clacked loudly on the concrete floor as I strolled toward the lone door on the back wall.

Matthew climbed out as well, glancing around the garage before following me. I quickly tapped a series of number into the keypad set beside the door, humming softly as I did. At the beep, the red light on the front of the pad turned green and the sound of a lock being disengaged emanated from the other side of the door.

I glanced up at my cohort and flashed a grin. He was staring at me oddly, like he couldn’t believe the multiple layers of security.

"Thomas likes his privacy," I explained, opening the door to head inside.

The kitchen we stepped into was humongous, and seemed larger than I remembered. Stainless steel appliances lining the walls gleamed from the faint light drifting in through the doorway on the other side of the room. Matthew entered right behind me, jumping slightly as the sound of the garage’s door automatically closing rattled behind him.

I giggled a little before moving through the room to the fridge. It wasn’t until I was standing before it that I realized the reason the room seemed larger.

I was now smaller.

Matthew closed the door, whistling softly as he took in the opulence of the room. The expression on his face, however, was one of valued appreciation rather than raw impression. Hell, for all I knew he’d owned houses larger and nicer than this.

I kicked off the evil dress shoes and wiggled my socked toes on the cool tile of the floor, sighing with exquisite relief. No matter how adorable the damned things looked, their one-inch heels were so not made for sprinting. Especially across concrete sidewalks and hospital corridors.

I pulled open the fridge, peering inside. As expected, I was greeted with an extensive assortment of imported beers. Thomas was a connoisseur of brewed alcohol, always sampling and trying new craft concoctions. Though I was more of a domestic guy myself, the day I’d had earned me at least a lager. I grabbed one of the bottles, a dark brown one with a German, or possibly Dutch, label and twisted it open using the towel hanging on the oven door.

Matthew stood there watching me, a slightly amused look on his face.

I held the bottle up in a mock toast in his direction, then took a long, deep swallow.

The next thing I knew, I was leaning over the sink, coughing and sputtering. The horrible-tasting liquid had set my throat ablaze and caused my tummy to roll in protest. Tears ran down my face as I fought to get the gagging under control. A second later, Matthew stepped up behind me and put his hand lightly on my back, patting softly.

"Sorry about that, Jack,” he said in a soft voice of condolence. “I should have warned you."

"Warned me?" I croaked, turning my face in his direction.

He nodded. "You've probably been drinking alcohol in some form for decades. Unfortunately, none of that tolerance, or acquired taste, carries over to your new body.”

I groaned in response, still feeling like I might puke or something, and closed my eyes. The hand making slow circles on my back felt wonderful and relaxing. Comforting. A warm fuzziness wrapped itself around my brain, whispering alien thoughts about how nice it would be if I had a thick blanket to curl up in.

Then, just as I was about to give myself over to the sensation, my eyes flew open. I spun around to put a few feet between me and the body-jacker.

"Watch it with the hands, you perv," I said, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring up at him. "We aren't here so you can get a cheap feel.”

A hard look formed on his face, his fingers curling into a fist before dropping to his side. He shook his head, his features slowly softening to an expression of disappointment.

"I was only trying to make you feel better, Jack," he said. "Believe me, I feel no sexual desire toward you. Not as you are."

I arched a brow. "Oh really? What's the matter? I'm not sexy enough? Or do you prefer men?"

He shrugged. "Sexual orientation is mostly biological, Jack. So, your body's orientation is my orientation." Then he laughed. "However, when I look at you I think 'cute'. Not 'sexy'." Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen.

For a second, I felt weirdly upset by his comment, then shook my head to chase that thought away. Leaving the horrible bottle of brew on the counter, I reopened the fridge and opted for one of the waters lining the shelf above the beers. Twisting it open, I followed Matthew into the living room.

He plopped down on the sofa in the middle of the gigantic room and pinched the bridge of his nose. A cold chill ran through me as I recognized the gesture as one that I often performed. Usually right before I had to give a victim's family member bad news. I walked over to take the chair across from him.

"Sorry," I said, pulling my knees up beneath me. “There’s all these weird thoughts and sensations and feeling. It's like, they're me and not-me at the same time."

He nodded. "It's a part of the swapping process. An acclimation of the mind and body."

I leaned back in the seat and stared at him. "Is that what you meant by me being corrupted?"

He nodded. "Perhaps corrupted wasn't the right term. I’m not really knowledgeable about the specifics of how it works, but here’s what I do know from personal experience. When a Body Hopper switches places with someone, some residual … essence … from the former owner remains behind. It helps us with blending in with our new lives."

"Blend in?" I asked, tilting my head to the side.

He nodded. “Yeah. Okay, let’s say that someone is right-handed. If they were to hop into the body of someone who was a lefty, suddenly switching to a different dominant hand might get noticed. That residual essence allows them to use their left hand flawlessly. Or, if the person had an accent or regional lilt, it would just come naturally.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. "You mean it helps you with pretending to be the person who’s life you stole without raising too much suspicion."

He frowned slightly, but nodded in agreement. “Yeah, something like that. Like I said, I don't know how it happens. Only that it does. Until today, I didn't realize the effect went both ways. I don't usually have this much discussion with someone after we've swapped."

"Really?" I said, unable to contain the sarcasm overflowing in that single word. "I can't possibly imagine why you wouldn't want to have a chat with the person whose life you just stole. I mean, I can’t imagine they’d be all that upset about it."

His jaw clenched again. "Unlike some other Hoppers out there, Jack, I don't steal people's lives on a whim. It's usually an ... arranged affair. This is the first time in over three hundred years I've swapped into someone without their permission."

"You've got to be kidding me," I said as rolled my eyes and unfolded my legs to cross them at the knees. “Are you seriously trying to convince me some people, like, let someone have their body? Hijack their life?”

"It's not hijacking. Not when I do it." He frowned. "Are there less scrupulous people like me out there? Absolutely. They enjoy taking a body from the unwilling. However, I only switch with people who already want to die."

I felt my mouth drop open. "You’re talking about people who are suicidal."

He nodded. "If someone is completely bound and determined to end their life, there's not much anyone can do to dissuade them. As a cop, I know you know that to be true. I simply approach those people and offer to help them … shuffle off the mortal coil. So to speak.”

"So," I said slowly, trying to wrap my mind around his words. "You find someone who wants to die, then convince them to let you have their body. After the two of you have switched, you murder them so they don't have to worry about killing themselves?"

“That makes it sound crude and heartless, Jack. When it’s time to switch, I poison myself with a special concoction that is completely painless and relatively quick. Then we swap. They drift off to their eternal sleep in my old body and I start living in theirs."

"That's, like, the most stupidest thing I've ever heard of."

"You would rather I just let them kill themselves? Either way, they’ll be dead." His expression was completely sincere. “You wouldn’t believe how many people readily agree just to avoid hurting their family. After all, as far as everyone else is concerned, the person is still alive.”

I shrugged in response to his justification. "Afterwards, that residual essence stuff lets you avoid tipping your hand about you not being them?" I arched a brow as I considered the implications of the exchange as he’d explained. “So, what if the person you swapped with didn't speak any English? I mean, accents and stuff like that is one thing. If you, like, swapped with someone from China, would you be able to speak Mandarin?"

“Right off the bat? Probably not. However, I would be fluent in a few days." He shrugged. "I’ve never swapped with anyone I couldn’t communicate with. The truth is, I never know what all I will pick up from the host body. One time, back in the 70s, I swapped with a guy who was a professional billiards player. Two days later, I was doing trick shots and running the table as if I'd been playing all my life. I didn't have to even try, it just came to me." His eyes, my eyes, bored into me. "It eventually just becomes second nature."

I frowned. "So that's why my speech has become ... different, isn't it? Why some things I’m used to doing feel totally wrong and stuff I wouldn’t ever do, such as twirling my hair around my finger, seem normal?" I looked down at myself. "I'm turning into this girl."

"No," he said, leaning forward. "You're not turning into her. Not exactly. It's just that parts of her are expressing more strongly than certain parts of you. Your memories of being who you were aren't going to suddenly replaced by her memories. Your reactions, mannerisms, and stuff like that, however ..."

I gave him a quizzical look. “What kind of other stuff?”

He didn’t answer for a couple of seconds, then snapped his fingers. Another trait I recognized as mine.

“Okay, I'm going to try my own hand at sleuthing and guess that you’ve never worn a pair of heel, like high heels, in your life. Right?”

I shook my head, unable to suppress a tiny smile that formed on my face. "Sorry, Matt. I'm a little too straight-laced to perform in drag."

He chuckled, though I noticed his amusement seemed to be more at me, than with me.

“So I could guess. Yet, I bet if you put a pair on right now, in ten minutes of walking you'd be strutting around like a seasoned pro. Unless that girl never wore heels either. Part of it would be the body's muscle memory, but not all. Likewise, your speech patterns have undergone some ... alterations ... because we're not normally conscious of the way we talk. We just talk. It's automatic." He shrugged again. "Except now, the automatic portions are more attuned toward a teenaged schoolgirl and less a seasoned police officer."

I frowned. Of course I had noticed the marked difference in my words and tone. The worrying part was that I also realized I was noticing it less and less the longer I was stuck in this body. Would I eventually sound like some dippy valley girl? Did valley girls even exist anymore?

"I suppose that extends to other things?" I asked. "Like applying makeup or braiding hair?" My hand reached up to my head, finger extended. Luckily, I stopped myself before the damned twirling could start.

Matthew waited a few moments before answering, obviously concerned about his response.

"Eventually," he said. “Just like picking up playing pool.”

I shook my head, flashing him my most serious look, and jumped out of my seat.

"There isn't going to be an eventually for any of that, Matthew. You know why? Because I don't plan to be, like, in this body any longer." I stepped closer, stabbing his shoulder with one outstretched finger. "Switch us back. Right now!"

He stared up at me for a few moments, then nodded as he stood up. He reached out with both arms, placing his hands on my shoulders, then leaned in until our noses almost touched and our eyes were only inches apart. For several long seconds, we stood there, staring into each other's eyes.

It began as a light tugging sensation, centered around the base of my skull. Like someone pulling on a thread running from the top of my spine, through my brain, and out my eyes. The tugging became a yank, causing a sharp stab of pain that made me hiss loudly. I felt like someone was trying to vacuum my gray matter out through my orbital sockets.

Like a switch flipping off, the pulling ceased and a wave of exhaustion rolled through me. I swayed on my feet, feeling the room tilts wildly. My eyes closed and the world went sideways. Before I could hit the floor, however, a strong hand grabbed my shoulder and guided me to the couch. I collapsed as soon as my legs hit the soft cushions, falling over at an angle to lay back in a half-sitting position, my head rolling around loosely on my shoulders.

I felt like someone had just punched me in both of my temples and the base of my neck at the same time.

"Damn, that hurt," Matthew mumbled, plopping down beside me. I cracked open one eye to see him rubbing at the sides of his own head, grimacing.

"What was that?" I croaked, momentarily feeling like I was going to hurl. "It wasn't like that when we swapped the last time."

Blinking a few times, Matthew shook his head. "I have no idea. I've never had that happen. It's possible the drug the Order shot me, I mean, shot you with are still in your system. That might be preventing me from switching us back."

The throbbing was slowly subsiding, but the nausea threatened to hang around for a bit.

"How long until I'm clean?"

He responded with a silent shrug.

It took a few more minutes before my stomach felt stable enough to sit upright. When I did, I suddenly realized an urgent issue. I stood up, swaying a little, and started walking away from the sofa.

“Where are you going?”

I kept walking, angling for the staircase on the far side of the room, as I pointed at the ceiling.

"Nature’s calling. I need to go to the bathroom," I said.

I expected him to ask why I wasn’t using the one next to the kitchen since it was closer. However, the sound of Thomas’ gigantic television hanging above the stone fireplace flaring to life told me he had other things on his mind.

Ascending to the second floor, I continued down a hallway covered in thick, fluffy carpet toward the door standing closed at the end of the hall. When I reached it, I put my hand on the knob and hesitated, convincing myself that what I was about to do wasn't some form of perverse vanity. It was necessary.

Thomas had gotten divorced from Sheila, his lunatic of an ex-wife, about three years earlier. The money-grubbing tramp had taken her alimony and headed off to bask in the Miami sunshine. However, they shared joint custody of their fifteen-year-old daughter, Karen. It was the absent teen's room I found myself standing outside of, nervousness making my arms and legs tremble.

I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths. Panic wasn't something to which I was accustomed. I knew, logically, what I was experiencing was likely the residual emotional responses inherent of the former owner of my body. I was only feeling scared because she would have been scared.

However, knowledge didn't do a damned thing to make the feelings any less overwhelming. And that was the part that scared me.

Back at the hospital, I'd managed to remain calm and detached. Ingrained reactions which assisted in our escape from the clutches of the Order. My lack of anxiety was likely due to my belief that my strange physical would only be temporary.

However, now I had the unsettling fear that might not be the case. A whisper, hovering in the back of my mind, that I was going to be stuck in the body of this teenager for a long time. Helpless to prevent my decline from a tough, seasoned police officer to a giggling, clothes-crazy schoolgirl.

After several long minutes of deep breathing, I managed to compose myself enough to reach out and turn the knob. The door swung open easily, letting a tiny sliver of light into the dark, cavernous room that loomed like the pitch black interior of a cave leading into an unknown realm.

I’d been in Thomas’ house more times than I could count, but until now, I had never so much as peeked into his daughter’s room. I steeled myself, drew in a deep breath, and stepped into the shadows, feeling blindly along the wall inside until my fingers brushed the light switch. I flicked the level up, and the overhead light in the ceiling ignited.

The walls were a pastel blue, almost the color of a robin’s egg, and the off-white curtains over the double set of windows sported a tiny pink flower pattern. There was a door on the far side of the room standing partially ajar. Through it, I could make out the curve of a sink and the gleam of a mirror. Karen’s private bathroom.

The center of the room was dominated by a white, four-poster bed, the curtains normally draped from the posts and rails curiously absent. The red and white checkerboard duvet on top of the bed looked totally comfy and inviting. Part of me thought a nice nap would go a long way to recharging my batteries. Though, some level of alien awareness warned that if I crawled under that thick blanket, I’d end up crying myself to sleep.

I glanced from the bed to the matching nightstand beside it. In addition to a small lamp, the shade decorated with a myriad of heart and moon stickers, there was also an expensive-looking clock radio. The digital numbers glowing with a soft blue light informed me that it was nearly nine o’clock. Meaning I’d been the mysterious girl for nearly fourteen hours.

Less than a day had passed, and I was already losing the fight against the overwhelming emotions and personality that came with this body.

There was another door, this one closed, on the other side of the room, next to a

three-drawer dresser in the same color and style as the nightstand and bed. I walked over to the door and pulled it open.

I wasn’t surprised to see it was a large walk-in closet.

There must have been some sort of motion sensor on the door or inside, because the second I walked across the threshold, the track lighting running along the ceiling instantly illuminated the scene.

I stood there, staring at the exorbitant abundance of clothing hanging from the double sets of rods lining the side walls. There were dresses and skirts, blouses and shirts, sweaters and slacks. Everything was segregated by type, style, and color. I pulled a light peach colored sweater from one of the hangers. The tag inside confirmed my suspicion that Thomas’ daughter preferred designer labels.

There was a full-length mirror on the back wall of the closet, opposite the door. I stepped closer to it, examining the image reflected back at me. When the girl in the mirror had been running at me along the sidewalk outside the café, I’d noticed only the most general of her details. Apparent age, hair color, eye color, ethnicity, and attire. The heat of the moment had precluded any further inspection.

Now, however, I had more than enough time to review the new me.

The girl looking back looked around sixteen or so, and wore a doubtful, almost timid expression on her youthful face. As Matthew had claimed earlier, she was more cute, or pretty, than sexy. Although, it wasn’t hard to see that she really hadn’t fully blossomed. Over the next couple of years, she was probably going to turn into a knockout.

Her golden blonde hair hung down to past her shoulders to the middle of her back, and was in a bit of disarray. Obviously the result of running for her life and lounging on a lumpy hospital pillow. She had green eyes flecked with bits of blue that looked like polished emeralds in the glow of the florescent lighting. The nose situation between them was small and

slightly upturned.

I moved back a step, moving my attention away from her face to the rest of her. The legs peeking out from the hem of her pleated skirt were short and slender. Almost coltish. Perhaps one day they would fill out into a more sultry shape. I turned to the side, noticing that her rear wasn’t anywhere near as big as it felt to me. While there was definitely something hidden beneath the dirty wool skirt, it would never be mistaken for a “booty”.

I stripped out of the blazer and the white blouse, leaving only the bra on. When I’d gotten dressed at the hospital, the small breasts had seemed had seemed enormous from a first-person perspective. Looking at my reflection, however, I could see that they were actually not huge at all. If pressed, I would guess them to be a B, even a small C, in size.

I brought my eyes from my bosom to my face, locking eyes with the girl staring back at me.

“Hello,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry you got all mixed up in this. I promise I’ll do my best to take care of your body while I’m in it, and find some way to get it back to you.” I pushed a smile onto my face, but it was apparent that it wasn’t genuine.

I felt a little ridiculous talking to a girl who wasn’t there. Making a promise I wasn’t even sure how to fulfill. Even if Matthew managed to swap us back around, there was still the problem of finding the body holding her mind. We didn’t know where she might be, or even what her name was.

I gave the girl a final glance, then began to grab some clean clothes. In addition to the peach sweater I’d found earlier, I snagged a pair of jeans from the rack, and held them up to me. They seemed a close-enough fit to be workable.

In the top drawer of the dresser, I found Karen’s underthings. A few of the articles inside were a little too risqué for my comfort, but I did score a pair of really cute pink socks, a beige bra, and a pair of light blue cotton panties adorned with pink stripes.

With the clothing tucked under one arm, I crossed over into Karen’s bathroom. Setting my haul on the counter, I proceeded to use a bottle of foaming face wash to scrub the remains of the makeup adorning my cheeks and eyes. When I was done, my skin was left with a nice rosy glow. Removing the makeup, though, seemed to crank the clock backward a year on my appearance. I would be hard-pressed to believe the girl in the mirror was a day over fifteen.

There was a black-handled brush on the back of the sink, and I went to work getting the tangles out of my messy blonde hair. Then I grabbed one of the dozen or so brown hairbands from a small, plastic container and secured the tamed tresses into a tight ponytail. I paused for a second afterward, a shocked expression plastered on my face when I realized that I’d put my hair up without even having to think about it.

I shuddered with the revelation.

The blazer and blouse were still on the floor of the closet, so I unzipped the side of the skirt and let it drop to the floor at my feet. Stepping out, I used my toes to push it behind me. Rummaging around in a small closet next to the sink gained me a towel and a small washcloth.

I gave myself a quick “whores’ bath” with the face wash, scrubbing especially well around my neck and armpits. When I removed the bra to wash my breasts, I averted my eyes. Doing the deed was making me feel like a dirty old man already. Watching myself at the same time would have just been too much.

Of course, I had to accept that if my situation didn’t improve soon, I would have to get over the feeling of being a Hubert Humbert finally getting his hands on Lolita. For now, though, I chose the more conservative path.

I stripped out the panties I was wearing, but didn’t wash anything more sexual than the tops of my legs and the small of my back. Turning around to face the shower, I patted myself dry with the towel, then put on the purloined clothes. The jeans were an inch or so too long in the legs, though they fit really well in the hips and butt. The bra, a 32B according to the tag, seemed a bit tight.

However, I decided the clean trumped over fit. I returned to the closet and emerged with a pair of lime green Nikes in my hand. I put on the socks and the shoe, which were another perfect fit, and headed out of the room.

When I got back downstairs, Matthew had moved to the chair, leaning forward to stare at the television with his hands resting on his knees. There was a commercial for pickup trucks playing on the screen, and he turned to look at me when he sensed my return.

His eyes moved up and down, taking in my neater, better attired, appearance. Then the corner of his mouth turned up in a sideways grin. The same expression I used when I was feeling particularly amused.

I rolled my eyes, then did a little pirouette. As if modeling my new look.

“Happy?” I asked, walking over to sit down on the sofa.

“I wondered what you were doing up there,” he said. “But I thought it might be rude to go up and check on you.”

“I just needed a moment to decompress a little.” I shrugged. “Take stock of everything.”

He nodded. “That makes perfect sense. Though, I have to admit, you certainly don’t look like a Sasha.”

I crinkled up my nose, glancing from the television to him. “A what?”

He pointed at the screen. The truck ad had been replaced by one from a local attorney who was yelling that he would fight for my rights.

“It was just on the news while you were getting cleaned up. We now know who you are. Well, who the body you’re in is anyway.”

“Who?” I asked, both eager to hear my identity and dreading it simultaneously.

“Sasha Dellinger.”

My mouth dropped open as I stood up, looking from him to the screaming lawyer and back.

“Sasha Dellinger? As in, the daughter of Michael Francis Dellinger?”

Matthew’s lop-sided grin faded as he saw my reaction. “Uh, yeah. At least, according to the TV. They nodded. “That’s correct. Right now, they’re trying to speculate why she was attacked on the street in broad daylight, and what reason you … I mean Jack … abducted her from the hospital.”

“Oh … oh no.” My heart began to hammer in my small chest.

“Right now, your Chief is hinting that it was for protective custody.”

I flopped down on the edge of the sofa, holding my head in my hands.

“This is bad,” I said. “No, no this is beyond bad.”

Matthew stood up and walked over to stand next to me, looking at me with a mixture of fear and confusion. “Jack, what’s wrong?”

“Of all the people you had to leap into, why did it have to be Michael Dellinger’s daughter?”

“Who is Michael Dellinger?”

“Michael Francis Dellinger is the owner of a very prestigious high-end construction company. If a new commercial skyscraper is being erected downtown, or a exclusive residential community being developed, more often than not the signage on site reads ‘Dellinger Enterprises. The guy has his fingers into everything.”

Matthew stroked his chin with his thumb and finger. “I think my firm handles some of his company’s accounts. So ... he’s a rich guy?”

I nodded, disliking the way my belly felt like I was falling over the edge of a cliff.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “Very rich and very, very connected. According to some the scuttlebutt floating around the precinct, which I’m pretty sure are, like, totes accurate, his construction business is really just a front.”

Matthew shot me a curious look. “A front? What’s that mean, exactly?”

I sighed again, then gestured at my teenaged self.

“It means, Matty, that you hijacked the body of the head of the local mafia.”