CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Hana woke before dawn on Sunday morning. She lay in the darkness listening to the gentle breaths of her husband, feeling the mattress dip and shake as he shifted in the big bed. An austere grey light, filtered through the gaps in the bedroom curtains like cold fingers, exerting its hold over the day. Hana admitted defeat and got up.
She hugged a cup of tea at the kitchen table, swamped by boredom and a sense of imprisonment. “Oh, Lord. I can’t live like this!” she exclaimed and pressed her fists to her forehead. “I’ll go mad.”
The sewing machine would wake Logan and she considered her limited options to fill the long hours ahead. She set off another load of washing and examined Logan’s bloodstained dressing gown drying in the garage. “Dustbin, I think,” she said, unpeg
