"The fuck?" he groaned, pressing his thumb and middle finger against his temples. It was the middle of the day and he couldn't have a dream while he was still awake. It's been more than twenty years since he's last taken anything that could remotely send him off on such a powerful trip, but it felt like more than that. His shoulder hurt from the recoil and his heart was racing from the adrenaline.
It's Aubrey.
The thought seemed foreign, as if someone else had implanted that idea into his head. He was sure he was going crazy now - early onset midlife crisis? Late onset schizophrenia? - but his thoughts wandered back to look over the details of those vivid images.
It was Aubrey. Of course it was Aubrey. The address. The father's death. The complete ineptness with a shotgun.