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Chapter 42

He hears a man’s voice—deep and resonating, like Alex’s might sound in thirty years with enough cigarettes, and realises—at the bedroom door, and slurring the letters of the words too. Ryan feels a swell of anger at the presence of John Bexley; if anything, the distance has built him up into a figure of hate in Ryan’s mind. He doesn’t hear the question, or Alex’s quiet answer, but the sound of flesh on flesh, sharp and angry, goes off like a bomb in the small bedroom, and it’s all Ryan can do not to rush to get between them.

Another black eye, he wonders, or another split lip?

Another crack, then the creak of the door closing and heavy footsteps across the landing. There is a short, silent pause, in which Ryan stares at the dusty suit and hates

After a moment, Alex opens the wardrobe again, one hand held to the sharp angle of his jaw, and Ryan scowls.

“What’d he hit you for?” he mutters, but Alex turns and returns to the bed. “Alex?”

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