There was nothing left to say.
He covered her body with his, and as she put her arms around him she could picture him in all his incarnations: age five, and still blond; age eleven, sprouting; age thirteen, with the hands of a man. The moon rolled, sloe-eyed in the night sky; and she breathed in the scent of his skin. ‘I love you,’ she said.
He kissed her so gently she wondered if she had imagined it. She pulled back slightly to look into his eyes.
And then there was a shot.
- Jodi Picolt, The Pact