Probably it was no more than half a minute at most. I kept thinking about that split second before he fell, when I could have saved him and I didn’t, and the mute accusation I’d glimpsed in his eyes. Why hadn’t I reached out? Was it because I froze, my reactions just not fast enough? Or had I made a deliberate decision not to help him? It happened so fast I told myself, that I would never know for sure, but I wasn’t convinced. The instinct to reach out should have been automatic, not requiring conscious thought. I might even have started to move, the impulse that originated in my brain firing off electrical messages to nerve receptors in my muscles, but even as my hand twitched my brain had sent another message that said, wait up! Let’s think about this for a moment. What if he fell? What then? And that was as far as it got because by then my hand had been stayed and he was gone. I went back into the office, leaving Dexter lying where he’d fallen. I poured myself a stiff scotch which I drank quickly, and then another which I took my time over.
