Dawn had already broken, yet Phoebe still couldn't sleep again. The first light of morning had long seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but her bedroom felt colder than ever. The nightmare had ended hours ago, yet the lingering dread refused to leave her alone.
"I'm thinking too much about Elena's case," Phoebe whispered into the empty room. "It's getting into my head."
She ran her fingers backward through her hair aggressively, letting the long, silken black strands slip through her trembling fingers before anchoring her hands tightly against her scalp. Her mind was throbbing, pulsing with a frustrated, splitting headache from the invisible pressure that continued to constrict her chest.
"This has nothing to do with me," Phoebe muttered, forcing logic into her exhausted mind.
"Elena Laurent is Elena Laurent. Her life, her mistakes, her scandals ... none of them have anything to do with mine."
