FLOWERS
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Loggerheads
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Sian was curled up on her sofa, shaking. Elvis was sitting guard at her feet; one of the officers had brought in one of those silver-coloured blankets they use when people have run marathons and draped it over her shoulders. She was still processing what had happened and what she now knew about Pat Walsh. There were still traces of his blood on the floor, where it had pooled and spread, but she didn’t need to take a sample to be sure. Because she knew it, as surely as their eyes were the same colour: dark and exotic.
Elvis sat up straighter, his ears pointed, and then Kris walked into the living room. He took one look at Sian and rushed over.
‘Did he hurt you?’ he said.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m fine.’ She gave him a weak smile and let him hold her,
