---

---

My thoughts came back to the present. Lucas seemed to have steadied somewhat. He stepped toward me, reaching for my hand.

"Sylvia. I'm sorry. I lost my head. I've got a real fever — my head's splitting —"

His voice had gone soft. Apologetic.

I stepped back. Let his hand reach air.

"Go and rest."

Lucas's hand hung there.

His brow pulled together. He looked uncertain, and tried to come forward again.

"Sylvia, just let me —"

"I'm tired."

I cut him off. Walked into the spare room and locked the door.

Through the wall, I heard his teammates steer him to the main bedroom, whispering that if I hadn't made a scene, it was done with.

Done with.

I leaned against the door and slid slowly to the floor.

No. It wasn't done with. It was just that this book — torn so thoroughly it was barely recognisable — I didn't want to keep reading.