NINE
I didn’t mean to fall asleep.
In fact, I struggled with my heavy eyelids for a good half hour before giving it all up and letting myself rest for a planned, short increment of time—no longer than fifteen minutes.
But apparently, I don’t do cat naps and ended up conking out for three hours until I hardly hear Beckett come into his own condo, his voice calling my name three, four, five times before I can rouse myself and panic for a moment when I don’t recognize where I am.
I’m in a strange room, on a strange couch, blinking up at a darkened ceiling since only one lamp has been turned on by yours truly, and nothing looks like it belongs to me. The couch is comfy, of course, but it’s not the home kind of comfy where I can tell that I’ve been sitting in a certain spot for the past two
