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Right after I get onto Riverside Drive, my vision goes double.

At first, I think it’s because I’ve been driving for four hours. I blink a few times, and it goes back to normal, which confirms my theory. At first. But then a few minutes later, it happens again. I’m looking up at the stoplight, and even though I know there should only be one, somehow there are two of them. I blink, and the red lights swirl.

Shit.

I had hoped I threw up everything that was in my stomach. But apparently, some of it was absorbed. That probably also explains why my headache has kicked up several notches, and so has the nausea that has been with me since Telmont.

I don’t know what to do. I’m about ten minutes away from the brownstone. I definitely shouldn’t be driving like this, but I don’t have time to waste. The double vision seems to go in and out, so while it’s not ideal, it could be worse. I mean, I could be blind .

At least it’s not dark out. I can still see. I can still navigate, although I have to admit, if a pedestrian walked in front of me, I wouldn’t be able to stop in time. I am gripping the steering wheel with both hands, trying to make it those last few minutes back home. I let out a shaky breath.

I could pull over. I could call 911 and explain the situation. I have a feeling that whatever Krista gave me, I should be at the hospital. Not that I can afford the hospital since I don’t have health insurance, but what’s a little debt (okay, a lot of debt) if I’m dying?

Am I dying? No, I couldn’t be. I threw up most of those cookies.

The GPS has become useless because I can’t even see it anymore. Well, I can see it, but there are two of them, which makes it very hard to follow. I’m just going based on memory, praying I don’t accidentally go the wrong way on a one-way street. I turn onto Columbus Avenue, and now I’m almost back. Just a little farther.

I had been hoping I got it wrong. I had been hoping maybe Krista didn’t poison the cookies after all. Maybe the whole thing was somehow a big misunderstanding and she doesn’t actually want me dead.

But I’m not wrong. I don’t know what she gave me, but it’s killing me.

I make the final turn onto the block for the brownstone, and the car jumps the curb when I try to park it, but I don’t even have the energy to try to fix it. I’ll just have to park on the curb. I didn’t run anyone down, so that’s the important thing. And it’s not like Mr. Zimmerly is going to complain.

Poor Mr. Zimmerly. It’s my fault he’s dead. The whole damn thing is my fault. Well, in a more direct way, it’s Krista’s fault, but if I hadn’t had that moment of weakness with Stacie, none of this would be happening. The second it was over—hell, even before that—I regretted it. I felt awful about it for weeks and nearly broke down and told her a hundred times. I don’t cheat—I’m not that guy. I loved Krista and couldn’t believe I had done something so stupid to jeopardize what we had together.

But then after a month or so went by, the guilt started to fade. It was the worst thing I’d ever done, and I wanted to put it behind me. Krista never found out—or so I thought—and there was no reason to wreck what we had over one stupid night.

Little did I know she had found out and was making plans to burn it all to the ground.

My vision is swimming, and my head won’t stop throbbing. I fumble to grab my phone from the mount on the dashboard, nearly dropping it. I have to call 911. I don’t even have a choice anymore. There’s no time to talk Krista out of slashing Whitney’s throat. I’ll be dead before that happens.

Except when I look down at the screen of my phone, I can’t even focus on it. It becomes two phones, then three, then it’s one again.

Okay, I’m in really bad shape.

I manage to shove the driver’s side door open, and with much effort, I make it to my feet. The double vision is the worst part, because it makes me feel nauseatingly dizzy, but I can walk. If I’m holding on to something.

I need to get inside. The lights are on, which means Whitney is home, and she can help me call for an ambulance.

Unless, of course, I got the whole thing wrong and Whitney is in on it too. But I don’t believe that. Or at least I have to hope it’s not true.

It’s touch and go until I make it to the steps of the brownstone. Then I’ve got the railing to hold on to, and I make it to the front door. It feels like a miracle, but when I pull my keys out of my pocket, I realize that it’s extremely hard to unlock a door when the lock won’t stop moving. I never realized how tiny that lock was.

Why do they make locks so small? This is impossible…

Finally, I give up and press my finger against the doorbell. The chimes echo throughout the house, and I stand at the door, swaying as I wait for somebody to answer. If somebody doesn’t come soon, I’m not sure I’m going to make it. I need help.

Anybody…