Spencer isn’t sorry she killed Toby.
She’s just sorry she got blood on her favorite black hoodie in the process. Seriously, it was a bitch to wash out.
And it’s weird, because she remembers what happened -- the croquet mallet and the cracking sound his skull made (...all eighteen times) -- but after that, it’s a blur.
She knows she’s missing time but doesn’t know how much, and where the hell
she, anyway? And why is there a fucking bag over her head?
If the two women dragging her around don’t let go soon and tell her what the hell is going on, she’ll be adding even more bodies to her count. That is, if she can get her strength back.
Her senses are weakened, but Spencer can tell she’s groggy -- fuzzy, like her brain has been stuffed with cotton balls -- and seriously dehydrated.
It scares her that she’s not sweating, given how damn hot her face is right now. Her throat is scratchy and dry, and the hot air she’s breathing inside this bag burns on its way down.
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