The world swam back into focus with a nauseating lurch. Delia lay on the damp, mossy ground, the side of her head screaming with a dull, throbbing pain. Black spots danced in her vision. She tried to push herself up, but her limbs felt heavy, disconnected, refusing to obey. Above her, a figure came into view, silhouetted against the bright, indifferent sky.
"Philip?" she managed to say, the name a confused, painful gasp. Her voice was a thin, reedy thing. "How are you here? And how… how are you walking?"
The triumphant, cruel sneer on his face was the only answer she needed. The limp, the cane, the pained grimaces—it had all been a lie. A long, elaborate, perfectly executed lie. He reached into his coat and brought out a coil of rough, thick rope.
