Twenty-sevenThe room was comfortable enough, large sofa, beige-coloured carpet, soft lights. It reminded Marilyn of those show-homes that she and Pete used to visit a thousand years ago, when the idea of being married was all cosy and pink and lovely. How life had changed, her job chipping away at the edges, removing all the lovely fluff. Not much was left, except the routine.
This was nothing like routine. The man called Snelling brought her coffee whilst the other slightly younger, shorter man in the grey suit looked on from an identical sofa, legs crossed, a smile frozen on his lips. The caring, sharing sort of guy who tried so very hard to make you trust him. He was failing. Miserably.
Snelling held his own cup of coffee, taking an occasional sip whilst staring out of the window towa
