Which is weird.
Because the last place I remember being, I was up against a wall. His breath on my face. His hands on my blouse.
And then—
His head split open.
Right in front of me.
Not metaphorically. Not like, “Wow, I really blew his mind.”I mean, his actual forehead peeled open like a dropped egg. Skin, skull, brain—all of it. Blood oozing from the center, thick andsyrupy and slow, bubbling down into his eye socket like it was trying to drown him from the inside.
And I remember thinking,Good.
Which is probably the most fucked-up thing I’ve ever thought in my life.
I didn’t dream that. I couldn’t have.
Because I was glad.
Glad.
That he was dead. That he wasn’t going to finish what he started. That I wasn’t going to die with his hands on me.
And I know that shouldn’t sit right with me. I’m not someone who’s supposed to see a man get shot in the face and feel… relief.
That’s not my world.
But it happened, anyway.
The crack. The blood. His body hitting the floor like a dropped sack of meat.
I didn’t dream that. I couldn’t have.
Oh, my God.
And then… more. Memories roll in fast, uninvited.
Dave. His voice. Hisscream. Not like the guy I’ve worked under for seven years, but like prey. Short, sharp, final.
And then:green eyes.
The only steady thing in that entire nightmare.
Wait. Was all of that a nightmare? Or… did I die?
My fingers twitch. I try to move.
No. I’m not dead.
But my eyes won’t open. They’re glued shut like my body’s staging a quiet protest:We survived, bitch. We’re done now.
So I just lie there. Still. Quiet. Listening.
There’s a shift in the air. Warm. Subtle. Something new.
Another smell creeps in under the garlic.
Tomato. Herbs. Cheese.
