‘Has the nightmare come when you’ve … slept with other men?’ He sounded as if mentioning that scenario was an effort.

She ran her fingers through her hair. ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘But I only ever told you and Alex. I’ve never wanted a man to be thinking about that while we made love. I’m not saying you did,’ she put in hurriedly.

Wordlessly, he began dressing.

She hooked her bag over one shoulder. ‘You can go back to bed. My car’s here so I can drive home.’

He nodded to show he’d heard but continued yanking on his sweatshirt and jeans. They walked downstairs together and pulled on their coats.

‘I’m sorry I’m leaving you alone but maybe you’ll at least get some sleep.’ Laurel knew she wouldn’t. She’d stay awake and mull over their shitty situation, scared to close her eyes. She opened the front door to be met by a wall of fog swirling like phantoms beneath the streetlights. She fished out her car keys but before she could press the unlock button, Grady slipped his arms around her.

They stood there together in the creeping cold of the freezing fog. Then he cleared his throat. ‘When I think of you, in bed or anywhere else, I think of a vibrant, gorgeous woman. I’m pulled towards you as if I’m a magnet and you’re the North Pole. My guts twist whenever I think of what happened to you but I consider you much, much more than a victim. You’re strong and loyal, talented and intelligent. I’m more than half in love with you and while I acknowledge the difficulty we face, I’m not turning tail.’

Too choked to do more than nod, Laurel gave him a hard hug and hopped up into her SUV to reverse into the silent street. With every turn of the wheels on the two-minute drive home she heard I’m not turning tail, and wondered whether he’d silently been asking … are you?

As sleep felt as far away as the moon, she pulled up outside the silent hulk of The Nookery and took the pathway beside the house and across the ghostly garden to the studio. Letting herself in, she dumped her coat and grabbed a fresh canvas, one she hadn’t even gessoed yet, then prepared a palette of red, black and blue. She began almost throwing the paint on the canvas with her thickest brush, working at it in long, angry, frustrated strokes in bitter black, raging red and pissed off purple, forming a tunnel of violent colours that expressed all of her darkness and anguish and disappointment.

It wasn’t until she’d painted over every inch of white canvas that she slowed.

Once again she heard Grady’s voice. I’m more than half in love with you … Her heart did a long, slow flip.