Then came sounds I could not at that moment interpret correctly: a quiet snap, like latex, a metallic click as the case opened, a clean sterile smell that had no business existing in a dark bedroom. I lay there frozen for another three seconds with my whole body coiled and my brain still running several seconds behind what I was seeing.
I turned on the lamp.
The room came into focus all at once.
The man jerked back with one gloved hand raised. He was wearing navy scrubs under a dark jacket. The case was open on the nightstand beside him. Inside it were sealed syringes in a tray, alcohol wipes in a neat row, a coil of clear tubing, packets of medical tape, vials labeled in the small careful print of pharmaceutical labeling.
Elena had pulled the collar of her nightshirt aside. Below her left collarbone, beneath a square of transparent medical dressing, a thin line disappeared under her skin.
