“Oh, goddamn you,” Virgil whispered, watching them take the corpse out of the house and dump it in the trunk of the cruiser. Woodbury went back to shut the front door, then rejoined Novak and they drove off.

Virgil stood there in his dark house.

“Well, hellfire,” he said.

Chapter 4

IT WAS A BRAND-NEW dream, this time.

Amber was back home, in Orlando, and it was hot and muggy and the a/c wasn’t working, but the heat wasn’t affecting her like it usually did. Her brow was cool as she sat at the table and told her parents about her day at school. She hadn’t been bullied and she hadn’t been called in to Principal Cobb’s office, so today had been a good day.

Her parents listened, nodded, smiled with affection, and offered advice and encouragement. Betty set the table while Bill fussed with the oven. He opened the oven door and the heat spilled out and circulated with the already warm air. Dream-Amber started to sweat.

The dream did that fast-forward thing that dreams do, and now they were eating, and talking, and chatting. Bill and Betty remained cool. Amber’s sweat poured down her face and splashed on to her plate, but she was starving, so she finished her food and asked for a second helping. Her parents laughed and Bill took her plate and stood, carving knife in hand. He cut a large slice from the roast, and Amber noticed for the first time that the roast was Imelda, laid out on a large silver tray on the table, garnished and basted and smelling divine.

Bill handed Amber back her plate and she dove in, chewing on the tender meat while blood mixed with the sweat on her chin. It was glorious. Imelda’s skin crackled in her mouth.

Then she realised it was a dream and she woke up.

The first thing she registered was the cold. The second was the happy purr of the Charger as it gently rocked her in her seat. And the third, as she opened her eyes, was the pain in her hands. She lifted them off her lap, wincing but not screaming, which was an improvement. She could only see the tips of her fingers above the thick bandages – they were purple, swollen and sore.

“How you feeling?” Milo asked, keeping his eyes on the dark road ahead.

“Like all my fingers have been smashed,” she replied.

“Not all of them,” he said. “The doctor said your left thumb is badly bruised, but not actually broken.”

“And there I was feeling sorry for myself,” she mumbled. She looked down at herself. “Did I puke? I don’t remember puking.”

“You did,” said Milo.

“Damn.” She noticed he was wearing a different shirt. “Did I puke on you?”

“You did.”

“Sorry.”

“She gave me pills for you. You can take another in a little over an hour.”