Georgina found her son on the terrace at dusk, a glass of untouched scotch sweating on the railing beside him, watching the city light up floor by floor beneath a sky gone the color of a healing bruise.

"You've been standing there for forty minutes," she said, coming to stand beside him. "Give or take"

"I like the view."

"You like torturing yourself with it." She turned so she was looking at his profile instead of the skyline. "Jason. Look at me."

He did, reluctantly.

"You cannot keep doing this," Georgina said, and for once there was no steel in her voice, only tiredness, the tiredness of a mother who...