every one of them.

He did not bring wine. He did not bring flowers. There was nothing in his hands but the square of cream silk, washed clean of blood at last, the R at the corner catching the low hall light like a small live thing.

He knocked once, quietly. The way a man knocks when he has not decided yet whether he wants the door to open.

It opened.

Clare had been reading. She was still in the cardigan from earlier, hair loose, a paperback held against her