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How can one man need so much room?

On the wall behind the sofa hung a painting of a blue-and-gray cloudscape. It occupied most of the wall. It was stunning but cold and impersonal and, in my opinion, a little bleak. The remaining wall housed glass French doors that opened onto a small wooden deck. Beyond the deck, the wild green jungle of the garden began.

“I haven’t done the garden yet.” Doctor Dyl looked embarrassed, as if this were a failing, and I didn’t know what to say. He turned, and I followed him out of the room into the hallway. “There’s a cloakroom here.” He pointed to a door beside the living room. “But this is my favorite room. My study.” He smiled and looked almost boyish, his blue eyes twinkling and his face softening. It was disarming.

His study was not like any other room in the house. For a start, two of the walls were painted a deep, deep bloodred—a radical departure from the normal white, giving the room a subterranean, gothic-novel vibe, especially in the dusk light. A full-length bookcase occupied the length of one wall, crammed with medical textbooks, crime fiction novels, and curios, including a skull. An antique mahogany desk stood in the bay window, a high-end iMac computer perched on top with an old-fashioned Pixar-style lamp that seemed to be the only light in the room. A weathered captain’s chair with padded worn red leather was tucked underneath. An antique rocking chair was poised in the corner of the room—but what grabbed my attention were the four guitars fastened to stands along one wall.

“You play?” I asked, surprised. Music was my life, yet my mother never mentioned that Doctor Dyl played the guitar.

“Whenever I get the chance.” He grinned, and my breath caught. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him grin, and for a fleeting moment, he looked closer to my age. “Music saved me,” he said, then frowned. “It was never my idea to be a doctor; that was my stepfather’s ambition for me. It’s a rewarding vocation, and I’ve learned to love what I do, but I also loved being onstage with the band.” His voice softened.

“You’re in a band?”

“Was.”

I gaped at him. I had no idea. Music had saved me, too, though I couldn’t face it now.

“I haven’t played for a while,” he murmured.

Of course not, he’d been babysitting me, and maybe like me, he couldn’t bear to listen to music either. I glanced at him, then back at the guitars. Two were acoustic, two electric.

“I don’t feel up to it. Like you,” he added.

He’d come to know me well over the last few stressful weeks. Since I’d lost my family any external stimuli—music, TV, the radio—was unbearable. I couldn’t even read. The white noise was too loud and too distracting. Normally, I found solace in books, my art, and my cello, but lately, I couldn’t tolerate anything that might evoke an emotional response. My only consolation was Numb, and I held her close, like the lifesaver she was. And right now, I felt she was clinging to me too.

The one activity I could stomach was walking. The simple process of putting one foot in front of the other was absorbing and kept me safe from all feeling. I’d walked around my village tirelessly over the past few weeks.

“Can I go for a walk?” I asked as we left his study.

Dylan’s brow creased as he hesitated.

No. Dylan. Please. I begged him inwardly.

“Um… I’m not sure—”

“I’ll just go up and down the road. That’s it.”

“Well…” he started, sounding unsure.

“Please,” I whispered, desperate.

“All right. But you need to be careful. You’re not in Bekesbourne anymore. There’s a huge difference between a sleepy village and West London. Be aware. Okay?”

I nodded—one emphatic nod.

“Let me get you some keys. Please don’t be too long. I’ll worry.” He paused. “Do you want me to come with you?” His wary look was back, and boyish Dylan was long gone.

I shook my head, rather too quickly. No way did I want him with me. Relieved, I think, he nodded and disappeared back into his study, returning a moment later with a set of keys. Grabbing them, I headed toward the front door.

“Be careful,” he said.

“Bye.” I was out the front door before he could change his mind.

Outside, the light was diffuse, almost golden, floating through the mighty sycamores that lined the street. On a whim, I turned left and walked up the street vaguely taking in my surroundings. There were more large houses similar to Doctor Dyl’s, all with expensive cars in the driveways. It hadn’t occurred to me that Dylan might be rich, but now I realized he was young to be living in a large family house in what appeared to be an affluent part of London. I didn’t know that doctors were so well paid. We hadn’t talked about money. Maybe I could find a job or something; I couldn’t expect him to support me, could I? Putting my head down and staring at my feet, I put one foot in front of the other. And on and on. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. And I walked and walked and walked.

When I returned, evening had faded into night and Dylan was outside waiting for me, pacing back and forth. His shoulders stiffened when he spotted me.

“Damn it, Emily, where have you been!” he almost shouted. “You had me worried sick. You’ve been gone for two hours! I was just about to get in the car and come looking for you.” He raked his hand through his hair as he regarded me with frosty blue eyes, his anger held in check.