The following morning, Salvar stared at the ceiling with the specific expression of a man who had just remembered something he would very much prefer to unknow.
He had slept badly. The bed was unfamiliar, the room was unfamiliar, and the house belonged to his murderer, which was not a detail that made for easy rest.
He looked down at himself.
He was sleeping in Silas's clothes.
He sat upright almost immediately, like the mattress had made a decision for him.
What have I done last night.
The answer arrived before the question finished forming.
He knew exactly what he had done and that was the worse part.
Not that it had happened, but that it had happened with full awareness.
No blackout to blame. No gap in the record. He had been drunk, yes, but not that drunk.
He had known precisely what he was doing at every stage and had done it anyway.
All because he got simply turned on by smell.
