He had no idea how much time had passed before he left the villa, opened his umbrella, and walked out into the small yard.
As soon as he stepped out, the rain came down in torrents, drumming on his black umbrella and streaming off the edge in a rushing curtain. Raindrops hit the fabric with sharp cracks, like beads bouncing and scattering.
Sylvan Cheney stared straight ahead.
In the distance there was nothing at all, only an endless night stretching out, with no end in sight.
There was a glimmering sheen in Sylvan Cheney's eyes, like the lights along the roadside—hazy and flickering, yet with a distinct clarity within.
Raindrops splashed and danced at the tips of his shoes; the ground beneath his feet was a sheet of damp.
The wind blew against his body, lifting the hem of his suit jacket; in his deep-set brows and eyes there remained that constant, heavy shadowed depth.
