Chapter 10
The house lay in silence, the kind that settled deep after children had gone to bed and the last of the dishes had been cleared. Lyra stood by the tall window in the sitting room, the curtains only partly drawn, the night spilling its darkness across the garden. In her hand was a glass of wine, deep red, catching the faint lamplight as she swirled it idly.
Her expression was calm, but her mind was not idle. She could still see Bruce at dinner, his fork unmoving on the plate, his thoughts far from the table. His eyes had wandered too often, his replies clipped, his hand tightening around his glass as if the weight of it anchored him. He was cracking, slowly, and though she never let the satisfaction touch her face, it stirred quietly within her.
She thought back to the morning
