CXVII

Four precious hours had been wasted in the pursuit and pointless questioning of Milana Brown. Luke had nothing to show for it, no further progress made on his dilemma. On the long walk back to his apartment, outside temperatures grew uncomfortably cold, but the pain of numb fingers was welcome—anything was welcome that might make him feel as wretched as he should.

Hands shaking from the chill, he unlocked his door, his eyes on the spot where Lyla had once propped herself up, knocking in the night so he might give her shelter. The smears of blood on her pale skin, the torn flesh, the look of unbearable pain in her eyes, he hated the memory. That's not how he wanted to recall her. Luke wanted to remember her cautious smiles, the spark that would come into her eye on the rare times his jokes chased away the cloud of fear storming inside her.