Justine
When she woke up, Justine checked her watch to see how many minutes she had before the alarm. Then she remembered: she was in Minnesota, in a double bed in the room next to her daughters’.
She ran her hand across the cool, empty space beside her. She’d slept in her sweatshirt and jeans, missing, against her will, the warmth of Patrick’s body pressed against hers. She wondered how Lucy had stood it, sleeping alone in this room where the radiator fought a loud but losing battle against the cold.
The night before, she’d been so tired she hadn’t cared that this was probably the bed Lucy had slept – and died – in. She’d only cared that, like the girls’ beds, it had fresh sheets. Now she slid from beneath the covers and stood on the small rag rug, rubbing her arms in her sweatshirt. T
