Chapter 11: Power Cut

The power went out on Fore Street at nine that night, and the knock came at nine-fifteen.

I had been in the flat above the bookbinder's for six days.

It had one bedroom, a slanted ceiling and a radiator that knocked.

I had paid the first month with the advance from a picture-book contract.

June was at Bea's for the night, and the flat was dark and quiet and mine.

Three hard knocks, spaced out.

I opened the door with a candle in my hand.

Winslow stood on the landing in his coat with rain on his shoulders.

"The DA's investigator called me," he said. "I told her I'd give a statement."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because I told her I wasn't looking at the street, and I was lying."

He swallowed.

"I'll say what I saw. Lorna at the bottom of the stairs. I didn't look up, and I should have."

I didn't speak.

The candle shook in my hand.

I thought of the thirty-one nights he had counted, and my own pulse jumping in a conference room.

"You're soaked," I said.

"Georgina."

"Come in."

He stepped inside and I shut the door.

The only light was the candle, which I set on the counter by the window.

He stood in the middle of my kitchen with his gloved hands at his sides, touching nothing.

I walked up to him.

I put both my hands flat on his chest.

His breath stopped.

"This is the terms," he said hoarsely. "You said no touching."

"I know what I said."

"Then why are your hands on me?"

"Because I'm asking," I said. "Touch me."

He made a sound I had never heard from him.

His gloved hands came up and framed my face, and then he kissed me.

It was not gentle.

It was thirty-one days.

He kissed me hungry and hard, and I pulled his coat off his shoulders and let it fall.

I kissed him back until my lips hurt.

My back hit the wall by the door.

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