By the insufferable burning in his limbs, it is decidedly true that Edmund Bolton is not, in fact, dead.

Though, at a time like this, he could be forgiven for wishing it upon himself.

“I love you.”

“Show me. Come home to me.”

This exchange, a mere few words, had tormented Edmund for days after they’d spoken. No number of letters and radio conversations and, admittedly, suggestive photographs had been able to stop them ringing out ...