I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. Spurlock lay with his head on his arms, asleep. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Lucy simply added her own good night, even though a significant part of her wanted to call Cathy mother, she refrained.
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