CIARA'S POV

The vision hadn't faded. Not even after two glasses of water and another bite of food. It stayed right behind my eyes, flickering like a cruel memory that hadn't happened yet.

Darragh. Screaming my name.

A gun.

A bullet tearing through his head.

Blood. So much of it.

I didn't know guns well, but it looked small. Sleek. A pistol, maybe. I remembered the rain too—cold, heavy, soaking through our clothes like it had a personal grudge. And then… a hand.

Not a face.

Just a hand.

And ...