Death Bliss
He does not release.
The lightning comes again, and in the flash I see his face. He is wet. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, his shirt soaked through, the collar open. The watch on his wrist catches the blue light, the gold band too loose on him, Lorenzo's watch, the dead brother's weight. His eyes are on my face, and they are not the careful, assessing eyes of the man who showed me a photograph in the north study. They are something else. Something I have not seen in this house before.
The dark returns.