CHAPTER 16
Marsha Wells’ story in the meeting room echoed in my mind, along with the screams and nightmares, the horrible memories of my wife lying in a bathtub of her own blood, and the visions of an albino maniac dismembering dead bodies in the woods.
Torn apart from the inside, I stumbled about like the victim of a horrendous gut-wound trying to prevent my organs from spilling free.
“Your story,” I said, “in the meeting room, the one that was cut short. You were talking about me, weren’t you? The man who had a happy life, or thought he did, and then one day—”
“What difference could that possibly make now?”
“How did you know?”
Marsha blinked rapidly and fiddled with her outfit. “I also mentioned there had been another, before you. A woman.”
“You …”
“I came here a few months befor
