She’s still talking, and the gun is still hanging out there at the end of his arm, and he blinks to clear the noise of a door crashing open. She’d believed in him? She’s doing this, though. Fear claws up his throat, he can’t breathe, he can’t stop seeing what isn’t there and she’s talking and talking, her fingers creeping over those bones. He wants to scream at her to stop it, but he can’t make a sound.