Damon didn't sleep.
He lay on his back in the dark, staring at the canopy of the bed, listening to Helen's soft, even breathing beside him. Usually, insomnia was accompanied by the frantic mental gymnastics of denial. He would build walls, construct excuses, and try to compartmentalize the events of the day.
Tonight, there were no walls.
The stark clarity he had found in the bathroom remained. He was a man consumed. The memory of the cellar replayed on a constant loop.
When the first grey light of dawn began to bleed through the curtains, Damon finally rose. He moved quietly, leaving Helen undisturbed.
He chose a dark, tailored suit. He stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting his cuffs, feeling the lingering ache in his groin and a tight, twisting knot of anticipation in his chest.
He walked downstairs, the house silent and shadowed.
As he reached the bottom landing, he smelled the coffee.
