She’d been trying to avoid it, but she really didn’t want to sleep on the sofa again. She stood a while in the doorway trying to conjure the ghost of Lucas – squinting through her lashes to see if she could picture him lying on the bed, one leg bent sideways, the scars on his chest catching silver in the moonlight. But no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t make him appear. The images in her head were fragmenting, fading away. She trudged to the bed and lay down, recalling for just one perfect second how it had felt when she had lain there with her head on Lucas’s chest and listened as he told her all about his family. She wondered idly how Flic was doing before pushing the thought away. Thinking about Flic and what she must be going through only made her feel even worse. It sapped all her strength, and she needed whatever strength she could summon in order to get through the coming days. Without being aware of it she had started counting the notches on the bedpost. Cyrus, the old Cyrus, had made them.
