The dead talk. Sometimes their voices are whispers. At others, their screams fade into the night. Until a silence scythes through the air. A silence that laughs, a silence that grieves. A silence that, no matter what, never dies.
Gillian Carlisle knew this. She didn't want to. But she knew. She was trying to remember. All the hints she didn't pick up on. All the things she didn't consider important at the time. All the little details she should have known, but didn't.
She and Francis had never been that close. Not when he was alive anyway. But now, in death, he was calling out to her. Waking her up in the middle of the night, telling her that she should find out the truth.
When she had first heard about his death, she had felt no great grief, just a kind of quite understated sadness. Heart attack was what the doctor had said.
But he was only 28, and wasn't that too early for a heart attack? She could feel the tears stabbing at her eyes. Maybe she loved him more than she had cared to admit. But apparently, heart attacks could come out of the blue, and in the absence of immediate medical attention, there wasn't much to be done.
So he was gone, and she had barely thought about him in the last 3 years.