My eyelids feel like lead—I can’t fight the urge to fall asleep. Andy sits beside me, at the edge of the bed, running his fingers through my hair. “You just haven’t been feeling well,” he says. “You need a day of sleep. Don’t worry about Cecelia. I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.” His voice is so kind and gentle, I start to wonder if maybe I imagined the whole thing. After all, he’s been such a good husband. Would he really lock me up in a room and make me pull out my hair? That doesn’t sound like something he would do. Maybe I just have a fever and this is all a horrible hallucination? No.
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did he drug that cup of water?
