Damien came home at nine thirty.
I heard the car on the driveway and the front door and his voice briefly with Mrs. Park. Low and short. The clipped version he used when a day had taken more than it gave and he did not have much left for pleasantries.
Helena had gone to bed at eight.
I was in the sitting room with my book when he appeared in the doorway.
He looked tired.
Not the ordinary end of a long day tired. The deeper kind. The kind that sits behind the eyes and does not shift with a good meal or an early night. Something had happened in the city and whatever it was had cost him.
He looked at me.
"Helena is in bed," I said.
"I know." He loosened his collar. "I saw the light under your door."
I put my book down. "Do you want to talk about it."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Not
