He scrunches his face. ‘I fill up from my nose.’
‘Does that really make sense to you?’
‘Sure. You fill your nose first, so your stomach doesn’t get as full.’
‘Poor baby. It’s toes. You fill up from your toes.’
He leans his head to one side, turning the words in his mind. ‘Maybe that makes more sense.’
We watch the rest of the movie curled around each other on the sofa, my feet tucked between his legs, his arm wrapped around my waist. Sometime later, I feel him lift me from the sofa and carry me to bed.
18
I watch my feet as I step out of the lift. My black heels click on the marble tiles of the sixty-fourth floor of the Shard. I fasten the belt of my black mac tighter around my waist for comfort. My body shivers, wet from standing at my dad’s graveside as he was lowered into the ground and cold from the air and eerie silence of the vestibule.
In my hand, I carry a white rose. I watch as my fingers and the rose reach out to the door of the apartment. Ajar. Blackness creeping out through the small gap.
I don’t want to go inside. I’m afraid.
My legs keep moving without conscious instruction. The door creaks as I step inside. Blue floor lighting dimly glows on the rosewood under my feet. The open lounge is otherwise dark, illuminated only by the moon and the lights of the city beyond the windows.
He’s here.
The top of his head sits two inches above the back of the black leather chair as he faces the silent streets of London.
The white rose falls from my hand and bounces on the ground as if time in the world has been slowed, almost to stillness.
‘You came alone.’ Kevin Pearson’s voice is low and husky. ‘You love him that much. You’d give your life for his.’
‘What do you want?’
He revolves in the chair until he’s facing me, his black suit jacket open, his white shirt unbuttoned by three. As the moon’s light catches his face, I see it’s not Kevin Pearson at all. It’s his body, his eyes. But the face is Stuart Culliton.
‘You can’t save him, Scarlett.’
He raises a hand, pointing a Glock straight ahead. Only it’s not aimed at me. Gregory is beside me, holding me to one side with an outstretched arm, ready to take the bullet.
The safety clicks off.
‘No. No. Nooooo…’
Pushing away his arm, I dive across Gregory’s body as the force of the metal leaving the barrel of the Glock thuds and echoes in the open space.
A searing pain burns through my abdomen before I crash against the cold wood floor.
‘Gregory!’
‘Shh, baby, I’m here. I’m here.’ He sits up in bed and takes control of my shaking shoulders. ‘Jesus, you’re crying. Come here.’
I know the nightmare is over. He’s here. He’s alive. But I still check my body for a wound before I relax into his chest and sob, letting him take me back to the mattress in his embrace.
He holds me, kissing my forehead, stroking my hair and the skin of my back until my breathing calms, then he slips back into sleep. I fight it. Afraid. I can’t give myself over. I won’t let it come back. I can’t see that again.
I don’t want to be here, in this apartment, any more.
As the black sky shifts to charcoal behind the bedroom blind, I slip out of Gregory’s hold and downstairs to the gym.
* * *
