But into something like it.
The dream came slowly.
A corridor.
Long.Familiar in that dreamlike way that meant it belonged to no place real.
Doors on either side.
Closed.
Each with a latch that rattled softly.
Someone calling her name from very far away—her father's voice?Marcus's?She couldn't tell.
A wind that smelled like bleach and concrete and…
She surfaced.
Not fully.
Half inside the dream, half in the room.
She became aware, dimly, of the TV light flickering on the wall.
The hum of the air conditioner.
The strange, metallic taste of adrenaline pooling at the back of her throat.
Something was wrong.
Her eyelids fluttered.
A shape sat in the chair at the end of the bed.
A man.
Bulky.
Ill-fitting overalls.
Shoulders drooped forward.
Face half in shadow.
And in his hands—
Held with an eerie, careful precision—
A gun.
Pointed at her head.
Kate’s breath seized in her chest.
The man didn’t move.
Didn't speak.
