Saturday, March 31


The bloodshot sun falls from the sky. I sit in my apartment, a not-so welcome change of scenery, and watch the hazy sky turn from deep blue to violent red. The sun glows brightly, darkly, agonisingly, leaking blood into the falling skies. The redness flows along the crest of the distant rise of Hollingdean, spreads out and across Lewes Road, and inches towards Moulsecombe and myself, sitting in the dark, watching the desperate death of the day.

As I watch the sunset - so powerful and beautiful in its bold and terrible colours, so slow and dramatic in its stark artistry - I am reminded that everything bleeds.

I still haven't heard anything from K. I'm beside myself, outside myself. Did she betray me after all? Worse, was she captured? I can't understand my obession with the woman; beyond the arrogance, power and grace in that slender body, something about her has claws in me. I make a silent oath to my whiskey that if she gets hurt in this even Thornton won't stop my thirst for revenge.

I've tried to keep myself distracted during the day. I've gathered up everything I have on Seth's over-acheiving cousin. I've collected all the accounts and the family historys. I've found the areas that are just too clean. I'll give that to Seth as a start. The guy is beside himself now. Last time I saw him he was practically shacking with the anger and humilation of his cousins' higher position.

But even as I work through the details of the investigation, I keep one I fixed on the door, the window, the phone, anything which might betray some hint as to K or Thompson's whereabouts.

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