IT’S ABOUT 2:30 A.M. in the morning when I wake up with a start. A dream. Another dream about the night of Joan’s murder. Finding her killer and unburdening myself of the guilt I’d carried for ten years hadn’t stopped the dreams entirely. But this one differed from all the others.
In every other dream, it had been Joan laying dead in my arms, just as it had been the night of the murder. In every other dream, Randy Earl had stood over me, pointing the g*n at my head.
Tonight, Helen lay dead in my arms. Tonight, a shadowy figure pointed the g*n to my head. I woke up when it pulled the trigger.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and run my hand through my hair, making a note that I’m in desperate need for a haircut. I haven’t had one since going to the monastery. I realize I’m hungry
