Oran may not have actually been in the IRA, but he does know how to fight. As soon as I yank the gun away from him, he punches me right in the face. The blow knocks me backward, and the gun goes skittering out of my grip, disappearing under my chair.

Oran tries to rip his hand free from the desk, but it’s stuck. He howls with pain, then grabs the hilt of the letter opener to pull it free.

Meanwhile, I’m down on my knees groping under the chair, trying to feel for the gun. I don’t know if it’s because of the haymaker from Oran, or because the pills are starting to kick in, but my head is swimming. The floor seems to rock back and forth underneath of me, and I can’t find the gun.

Uncle Oran jumps on top of me, slamming me into the carpet with his full weight. He knocks the air out of my lungs so I’m gasping for breath, my head spinning worse than ever. Then he tries to drag me up again, pulling me away from the gun.

Right at that moment, my hands close around something cold and hard. I grip the handle and curl my finger around the trigger.

As Oran yanks me up, I swing the gun around and point it right at his face.

He freezes, his hands locked on my shoulders.

“You wouldn’t shoot your Uncle . . . ” he says, his yellowed teeth bared in a stiff rictus of a smile.

“I absolutely would,” I say.

I pull the trigger, shooting him right between the eyes.

Oran’s limp hands release me, and he falls backward. I tumble back as well, unsteady on my feet. When I fall, the back of my head hits the carpet with a thud.

I roll over, and the whole room rolls around me. I jam my fingers down my throat, trying to make myself vomit. I gag, but nothing comes up.

Shit.

I try again, but my hand feels numb and floppy on the end of my wrist. My throat is swollen. Maybe that’s why I can’t throw up.

I try to get to the phone instead, but it seems a million miles away on Uncle Oran’s desk. I’m crawling and crawling, but not actually moving anywhere. My knees slide on the oriental rug.

Oh my god, I think my idiot uncle is finally going to succeed in killing me, when it won’t even help him anymore.

I think I’m still crawling toward the phone, but my cheek is pressed against the carpet, so I can’t actually be moving.

I feel cold. Very cold.

I wish Raylan were holding me. There’s nothing warmer than his arms.

Goddamnit. What a sad way to go. With so many regrets in my heart . . .

Suddenly, I feel myself float upward. I’m still freezing cold, but I’m pressed against something warm. I hear a steady thud against my ear.

I open my eyes again, and I see Raylan’s face. That’s impossible, so I know I must be dreaming.