Esther's POV
The light was all wrong.
That was my first thought as I swam up through the thick, black syrup of unconsciousness. I was on the living room floor, the rough fibers of the rug pressing into my cheek. Early morning sun, pale and weak, filtered through the blinds. It was morning. I'd been out all night.
I pushed myself up slowly, my head throbbing with a deep, sick ache. My body felt heavy, bruised. For a long minute, I just sat there on the floor, trying to separate what was real from what was a dream.
The jump. The gun. Armstrong's face, twisted in rage. Was it a memory? Or just a horrible nightmare, my mind spinning stories from the fear planted by those two heartbreaking kids?
But the phone call. That was different. I hadn't dreamed his voice in the study, low and furious. "Double the dose. Make sure it stays that way." That was real. I'd heard it. Dream or no dream about cliffs and guns, that fact was a stone in my gut.
I had to be careful.
