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Owen told me that a future with him wouldn’t be the future I’d want. What did he mean? What has he done? What happened during their marriage that made her walk out on him?

I don’t think he’s a criminal or anything like that. Owen won’t even mix his salad leaves, so getting involved in the criminal world is massively out of character, and I’m sure Smithy and Romana wouldn’t let him near their kids if he had a murky background.

Maybe she couldn’t cope with his need for routine, his need for cleanliness? Maybe she dropped too much grated cheese on the floor, and Owen told her he’d had enough.

That doesn’t fit or sit right either. Surely they’d been together for a few years before they got married, so she must have known all about his little eccentricities before they tied the knot.

What, then? A third nipple? Webbed feet? Did she catch him peeing in the shower?

As I place my key in my door, my overexcited brain throws something out that feels like a kick to the stomach.

No. It can’t be.

But the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

What leaves a man wandering the earth under a grey cloud he can’t seem to shake?

What makes a person so sad that they don’t want to get close to anyone?

What robs you of hope?

“I like you, and it’s because I like you that I can’t take things further, because a future with me isn’t the future you’d want, and I can’t do that to you.”

Like a robot, I make my way into the kitchen and stand by the window, staring at the clear sky, wondering if the grey cloud has followed Owen back to his house. Because I see it now—the only reason for Owen to be the way he is, to feel the way he does, for him to spend his life under the blanket of sadness, for his wife to up and leave, and for him to say a future with him isn’t the future I’d want.

And the more I think about it, the more everything slots into place: the weird tea, his healthy diet, the dark circles under his eyes. The first time he showed me the work garden, the garden he spends all his time in alone, when he said that the outdoors was the best medicine. When we left Meridian Square and he went all quiet on me, and then when I asked him about it, he said he didn’t feel comfortable talking about it, but I thought he looked unwell.

My hands shake as I reach for a glass, the thought settling in my gut like rot.

“A future with me isn’t the future you’d want, and I can’t do that to you.”

Oh God.

Owen must be dying.

35

Alice

It’s ridiculous how early I am for work. I’m on a late shift and not supposed to be here until ten o’clock, but I barely slept last night, thinking about Owen.

It all makes sense. The grey cloud he talked about, the scowl he walks around with, the hope he’s lost.

He must be dying. It’s the only explanation I can come up with.

I googled terminal illnesses and was bombarded by hundreds of things he could have, but I’m guessing it’s something like cancer, a slow-growing one, or some other chronic illness that slowly shaves years off your life.

I imagine he was diagnosed years ago, and his wife couldn’t deal with having a terminally ill husband, so she left him. It would be why Romana labelled her a bitch and took their wedding photo down. And rightly so. What kind of person promises to spend the rest of their life with someone and then leaves them when they’re diagnosed with something? A bitch, that’s who.

He doesn’t look ill, but that doesn’t mean anything.

From the research I was doing last night, there are forms of cancer where people are given a life expectancy of ten to fifteen years. And there were plenty of people on forums saying they had to work through their illness, as they needed to earn money to live and pay for the roof over their heads, which made me even sadder. Clearly that’s the case with Owen. No wonder he shuts himself away in his office all the time.

So, I arrived at work early because I have to talk to him. The way we left things last night was awful, and I feel even worse now knowing he might not have long to live. I don’t even bother with the staffroom and head straight to his office, knocking gently on the door.

“Come in,” he calls, and my heart flutters at his smooth Irish accent.

I push my way into the small space. He’s seated behind an immaculate desk. Two monitors, one keyboard, and a coaster are the only things occupying it. He’s wearing a grey shirt and dark blue trousers, and his hair is styled to perfection. I wonder how hard it must be to get out of bed every day, to look his best, to face the day knowing how uncertain his future might be.