Noel lay on his back staring at the ceiling of his bedroom. The afternoon light had turned golden, slanting through the curtains in long bars across the floor. He still wore the loose white shirt and dark trousers he had thrown on after Rowan left. He didn't need to wear anything formal as long as it was just comfortable cotton and wool.
The shirt was untucked, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open. His hair was messy from running his hands through it too many times. The blanket lay half-off the bed. He hadn't bothered to fix it.
His mind wouldn't stop turning.
The question kept coming back, sharp and cold.
Who killed the real Noel?
He rolled onto his side, pulled his knees up, and stared at the wall.
