The painting had killed two men. The thought wedged in Veronica's brain and wouldn't allow her to completely lose consciousness. She couldn't look away from the slumped figures on the floor. How was that possible? How had it returned her room to its non-torn-up state and how could it just lie there on the bed, looking innocent?
A painting. She was thinking about a painting like it was a person, or a…being? Living thing?
She swallowed against the thick acid liquid that clogged her throat. She couldn't throw up now. She'd have to pass by the bodies to get to the water closet. Hell, she could barely walk. Her knees seemed to be debating whether to hold her up or not.
"Are you all right?" Cloutier asked.
Veronica looked up at him and realized she'd been holding on to him, still half-tucked
