He's waiting at the front door when Isobel pulls through the gate.
Not inside, not in the study, not being efficient somewhere with his phone and his impossible schedule. At the front door, hands in his pockets, watching the car come up the drive with an expression that goes carefully neutral the moment he thinks I can see him clearly.
I see him clearly.
That's the thing I'm sitting with the whole drive back. The thing Rosamund named and that I've been turning over since I left her sitting room. Every time I've looked at Dominic Sinclair and felt something I couldn't categorize, every time his presence did something to the air that I filed under stress response or proximity or the general chaos of the situation, it wasn't imagination.
It was information.
My blood reading his and findi
