Travis looped his arms under the dead girl’s armpits and dragged her onto a recliner by the couch. Wheezing, he stumbled to the light switch and threw it.
The light in the living room was much harsher than the laundry or bathroom. He blinked back the glare.
There she was, on the couch, slumped unnaturally. There was nothing peaceful about her appearance. She was dead and had died violently and every part of her showed it.
He tried to think. To remember. Between the pain in his stomach and the adrenaline he couldn’t think straight.
Then, slowly, he remembered her.
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Travis Redgrave is not having a good morning.
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