I should say IF… IF. The word hangs there like a rusty sign. Other words hang in line behind it, like NEVER and BLOOD. Trusting Denis could be a mistake. He was Grant’s son. And if he had anything of Grant in him, he might be desecrated on the inside, rotting charcoal lining his heart. But something whispered hoarsely against my ear, Trust him. Hope painted parts of him, even it was just the tips of his fingers, the edge of his nose. There was something there. Denis cupped my elbow like a waiter holding a full bowl of soup, not wanting to spill what was left of me, as he accompanied me downstairs. Everything he said was a snatch, a snippet. Between cameras watching and listening, he fed me small lines, bite-sized morsels of information. As he steered me towards the lift he spoke. “Focus on the background, not the action. I know you said you can’t not watch, that the noises are worse by themselves…”
