‘He's dead, Jessica,’ Matthew told her in a pained voice. ‘I don't know how else to tell you! There was an accident, and——’
She didn't hear any more; she fell slowly to the ground with a gentle thud.
WHEN she woke up she was lying full length on the sofa, carried there by Matthew Sinclair, who now bent over her anxiously, his face pale.
Jessica looked at him with dull, lifeless eyes. ‘Andrew—he—he's really dead?’ she choked.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh God!’ She buried her face in her hands, crying as if she would never stop, then felt herself taken into strong arms, held gently against the firmness of Matthew Sinclair's chest. His shirt felt soft against her cheek, and she could feel her tears soaking through it on to his skin.
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