Malachi sniffled as if he should have been crying, but he didn’t have the strength left for any more tears. He’d shed enough.

Slowly, his hand drew out of her comforting hold. He felt like an intruder, taking things he didn’t deserve.

“He didn’t hang himself. I killed him.”

Would he ever have admitted it to her, had it not been for the drugs? Would he have considered saying it if he’d left for London, as he’d planned, and started over? He might have been a better man, then. One with enough merits to make up for his faults.