Damien Crew did not sleep that night either.
He lay on the sofa in his own bedroom, the one he'd refused to leave since the first week, and stared at the ceiling. His lips still felt warm. His hands still remembered the shape of her waist. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face tipped up in the greenhouse, flushed and trusting, and his chest filled with something so bright it frightened him.
At two in the morning he gave up. He got up, pulled on a shirt, and walked down the silent hall to his study. He locked the door behind him.
He told himself he only wanted to check his email. He sat at the desk and turned on the lamp, and his phone, which he'd left in his jacket pocket all evening, lit up in his hand.
*Unknown number. 1 new message.*
He opened it.
There was no text. Just a photograph.
