Authors: Deborah Crombie
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective
One thing remained. He’d not felt it necessary to enter the blue composition book as evidence, as Felicity had made a full confession. Now he rescued it from the car and set it on the coffee table while he drew the blinds and poured himself a drink. “Glenfiddich, Sid. Reserved for special occasions.” He sat, feeling the whiskey warm his empty stomach, watching the cat emerge and begin a delicate exploration.
Setting aside his glass, he picked up the book and leafed carefully through pages filled with neat, familiar script. The last entry was dated the day of Jasmine’s death.
I realized today had not been such a bad day, nor the one before, nor the one before that. If I had lived every moment of my life with the same awareness and intensity as these last weeks, it would have been rich beyond measuring.
As it is, I seem to have been blessed with a peculiar sense of time slowing down and opening up, allowing experience and reflection simultaneously. A quirk of physics, an alteration in consciousness—whatever its origin, it is a gift I shall not refuse.
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