Chapter ElevenWhat a f*****g night.
I should have listened to my gut and not met Gareth. Then again, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have ended up here at Mark’s place tonight. Or should I say Melody’s place? Over towards the open plan kitchen, I can see him—her—zipping back and forth from counter to stove and back to the fridge, the black flowing fabric of her dress, exaggerating every movement.
The moment we reached back, I was consigned to the sofa, where I was to stay under any circumstance, under various warm blankets. Apparently this is how you catch pneumonia: by going out on a particularly frosty January night and ending up in an unheated police van. Although I’m still sceptical about the dangers of getting a little cold while having the sniffles, I was shivering so badly, I wasn’t able
