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HAMPTON REGIS Early February, 1920

It was a bitterly cold night of frost, the stars sharp and piercingly bright overhead.

He pulled the motorcar to the verge and settled to watch the house that lay directly across the black expanse of water. It stood out against the sky, amazingly clear. Even from here he could tell there were lamps burning in three of the rooms. He could picture them in his mind: at the rear of the house-the sitting room, very likely. In the entry, where the pattern of the fanlight over the front door shone starkly against the deep shadows there-behind it the staircase, of course. And one on the first floor, under the eaves.

Their bedroom, surely.

The sitting room lamp went out after half an hour. He could see, for an instant, the grotesque silhouette cast for a moment or two against the drawn shades as someone reached out to turn down the flame. And then the silhouette reappeared briefly in the fanlight just as the second lamp was extinguished.

He leaned forward, his concentration intense, then swore as the windscreen clouded with his breath.

Were there two people in the bedroom now?

He couldn’t bear to think about it. He couldn’t bear to picture her in another man’s arms, wrapped in the warmth of the bedclothes, whispering softly, her hair falling over his shoulder and across his chest…

His fists pounded angrily on the steering wheel as he tried to force the images out of his mind.

And then the last lamp went out, leaving the house in darkness. Shutting them in. While he sat there, like a fool, in the windless night, cold and wretched.

It was the fourth time he’d driven into Hampton Regis. He had promised the doctor he’d do no such thing. But the temptation was too strong, overwhelming his better judgment.

Dr. Beatie had said, “Stephen-you aren’t healed yet. Do you understand? Emotional distress could put you back here, in a worse state than before!”

Both of them knew it was a lie. There could be no worse state than the one he’d somehow, miraculously, survived. He had had to kill the Captain before Dr. Beatie could set him free. He wished now it had been Matthew Hamilton who had died.

He caught himself, knowing it was wrong to wish such a thing. But God, he was tired, and alone, and sometimes afraid. He wanted things the way they had been in 1914. Before the war-the trenches-the nightmares. Before Matthew Hamilton had walked into the clinic waiting room to comfort Felicity and told her-what? Lies? Or the sordid truth? That her fiance was a coward.

After a time Stephen got out to crank the motorcar, the sound of the powerful engine roaring into life and filling the cold silence. He would freeze to death if he sat here, uselessly mourning.

Setting his teeth, he turned the motorcar and without looking again at the darkened house behind him, drove back the way he’d come.