Eight
Grace’s eyes fluttered open once, twice, then on the third time, all she could see was pink.
That wretched, all-pervasive pink.
She sat up and found herself on a rose-colored sofa. One of the containment cells then. They’d brought her to the jail without her waking.
She regarded her cell, a four-by-four-meter room. Someone had chosen the white beach setting for her, which played on a loop on one wall. Frothy waves crashing on pristine shores repeatedly.
She preferred this to the forest scene, she supposed, though she’d seen a real beach only once in her life, on a trip to South Africa with Davion.
As she sat on the sofa, trying to shake off the grogginess of the gas, the door clicked open and Commander Adams stepped inside.
“Grace,” he said, his face a mask of sorrow.
Adams w
