He got into the shower enclosure and cranked the water to a temperature so hot he could barely tolerate it. But the searing jet spray burned the fog out of his mind, helped him think more clearly.

He could not stop thinking about that inhumanly long tongue of hers. It made it difficult to accept that any of what he recalled had truly happened. Or if it had, then the experience was filtered through the distorted lens of a potent hallucinogenic drug.

What had she put in that damn chocolate cake?

He could accept the theory that he’d been drugged. Liked the idea, actually. It explained a lot. It explained everything.

His passing out—obviously due to the drug. Grace didn’t have the smooth skin and physique of a woman half her age. That had been the drug altering his perception. Neither did she possess a five-foot-long tongue that could twist and turn like a cobra. Drugs, again.

Learning which drugs could have had those effects on him would require research. He hadn’t studied pharmacology since medical school.

He switched off the shower, stepped out, grabbed a towel to dry off.

As bizarre and upsetting as last night’s incidents had been, it comforted him to realize that science could provide answers. He was a physician; he could figure this out, using the tools of logic and reason.

Speaking of tools, what about his spy cam? The clock-radio should have captured everything.

Towel wrapped around his waist, he rushed out of the bathroom.

Monica was in the bedroom. She stood in front of the dresser mirror, mouth open as she examined her teeth. She was already clothed in jeans and a sweater.

“Hey,” she said, in a flat tone. “You slept in, huh?”

He muttered a reply, glanced at the nightstand. The spy camera was gone, replaced by the old clock-radio he used. The digits read 8:35. With only mild alarm, he realized he was running late for work.

“Where’s the new clock I bought?” he asked.

She glanced at him in the mirror. “That ugly, cheap thing? I put it in the nightstand drawer. It didn’t match the décor in here at all. I couldn’t stand to look at it.”

He strained to keep his tone level. “When did you do that?”

“Before I came to bed last night. Why?”

“It’s my side of the bed, Monica. I wanted it there.”

“Then I’ll get you another clock-radio set,” she said. “Seriously, that thing is hideous, and it doesn’t fit your taste at all. You typically have better taste in . . . well, everything.”

“Are we going to stand here and argue about what sort of clock I put on my nightstand?” he asked.