He didn't make that same mistake, but Dean was close enough that I had to look over his shoulder to see her. Dean stood between me and the woman who'd unwittingly triggered my abilities by touching my right hand. I blinked, back in my own consciousness, the hazy images fading into the familiar, crystal-clear surroundings of the bar. Then he walked over to where he'd parked the car, opened the trunk, and took out several items as though musing over which one to start with first. My murderer stayed where he was, his hands still clamped around my throat, unaware that I was now looking down at him from outside my body. Then, mercifully, it stopped, and I felt like I was floating away. The pain intensified until it seared its way down my entire body. He increased the pressure while telling me he'd found out about my affair and exactly how he'd dispose of my body. Pain exploded in my neck, blurring his image as I futilely scratched and clawed at his gloved hands. I was in a thick, swampish area, staring in horror as my husband's hands clamped around my throat.
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