“Just a moment,” I murmur.
I get up. I cross to the bathroom. I run the hot tap until the water is the right temperature, take a small white flannel fromthe stack by the basin, warm it under the running water, wring it out, and bring it back.
She has not moved.
I sit on the edge of the bed and lift the shirt out of the way gently and clean her. Slowly. Carefully. The flannel is hot and soft and I take my time. She sighs and turns her face into the pillow.
When I am done I take the flannel back to the bathroom and rinse it and hang it. I bring her a glass of water and set it on the bedside table next to the wine glass that has gone unfinished. I retrieve the duvet from where it has been kicked off the foot of the bed, shake it out, and lay it over her, tucking it around her shoulders the way she likes.
I get in beside her and pull her against me, and she settles into the curve of my arm without waking, and her head finds the place on my chest she likes, and her breathing deepens and goes slow.
The room is dim and warm and her body is warm against mine.
I do not sleep. Not yet. I lie with my hand on her back and her hand loose against my ribs, and I look at the ceiling and listen to her breathe.
CHAPTER 26
Digital Ghost
IVY
I wake up and Alistair is still in bed. He’s on his back, his arm under my pillow, his other hand loose on my hip. He opens his eyes.
“You're still in bed.”
He pulls me into the curve of his beautiful body. “Don't get used to it.”
“I wouldn't dare.”
His phone buzzes on the bedside table. He reaches for it without lifting his head, looks at the screen for a moment longer than I expect, and sits up.
“Brodie?”
“Brodie.”
Twenty minutes later we are in the manor kitchen at Ashworth Park with the rest of the troops. Isobel is at the head of the table, hands folded around her cup, immaculate as always in a smartpantsuit, perfectly accessorized, hair done. Christopher is at the foot, looking, once again, like death warmed up. Henderson, looking marginally healthier, is against the dresser, Bijou at his feet.
The long oak table has been laid for breakfast. Three French presses, a jug of orange juice, a bowl of mixed berries, a huge plate of figs, a board of expensive sourdough toast still warm from the oven, butter, honey, two kinds of yogurt. Daisy pours a coffee and slides it toward me with a subtle smile. God bless the woman. She’s definitely my favorite.
I look to Isobel for news.
“Brumilde is doing very well,” she says. “They expect her home in two days.”
There’s a murmur of relief. I close my eyes and say a little prayer of gratitude. Alex had also had a good night, so my heart feels a little less bruised.
Alistair takes my hand under the table. I reach for the coffee pot with my free hand and pour for both of us. I inhale the scent of it, proper coffee, expensive, citrus and chocolate. I feel at ease until I clock the gun at Henderson's hip.
Alistair takes a piece of toast, then sets his phone on the table and calls Brodie on speaker.
“Morning, Brodie,” he says gruffly. “You’re on speakerphone.”
Brodie's voice comes out clear and concentrated. “Morning, all. I have news.”
We fall silent.
“You asked me about Vellcottt. This is what I have so far. He’s forty-six. Bermondsey. Eight years in Belmarsh in the early two-thousands. Came out, kept his head down. Mostly clean-looking on paper for the last decade.”
Henderson folds his arms across his chest. “And dirty in fact.”
