Damian came home at seven thirty on Monday evening.
Not to the bookshop. Home.
The apartment that had a wardrobe he'd stopped leaving slightly open. That had books on the shelves in a deliberate order. That had a photograph on the windowsill — not of anyone he knew, a cityscape he'd bought from a street vendor in the third month because he liked the light in it and had allowed himself to buy something he liked without immediately thinking about how easy it would be to leave behind.
He'd cooked.
Which he did sometimes now. Not every evening. But sometimes. The specific act of making something that took longer than it needed to because longer meant staying in one place long enough to do it.
He texted Kendrick at six: *Come to mine for dinner. I'll tell you everything from Sandra's call.*
Kendrick arrived at seven thirty-two.
