Twenty-Seven
The events of the past week had finally caught up with me on the T ride back to Allston and I’d passed out as soon as I’d made it home. Fragments of my mother’s final goodbye video swirled with the recurring dream of Taggart turning me to stone and killing me plagued me until the early hours of the morning. I’d finally given in and taken one of the pills Belladonna had prescribed days ago. It knocked me out into a land of dreamless rest well into the early afternoon hours. I woke to a too bright sunbeam hitting me in the face. I moaned and threw an arm over my face in protest.
The light persisted and I rolled over, catching sight of the clock on the night stand. My heart jumped into my throat. I groped for my phone, snagging the charging cord on the edge of the night table.
