[ It's been ten days since they accidentally overturned that stone, ripping open a subject that he hadn't meant to confront quite so openly. Not with Allison, not with his name attached, not in-person. Maybe they're still picking up the pieces from it. But he's not the only one walking wounded, and she has her own scars both literal and metaphorical, and there is one particular date that he'd meticulously filed away as being of significance: July 16th. The court trial. When Allison lost custody of her daughter.
She'd sought him out last time, the only person she'd told about it. This year, all things considered, Luther approaches her first with a morning text, because regardless of anything else, he's here for her: ]
What do you need today?
[ It could sound innocuous, like it's just about him picking up groceries or more toilet paper for them. (Of course it's not innocuous.) ]
7/16: the anniversary; again.
She'd sought him out last time, the only person she'd told about it. This year, all things considered, Luther approaches her first with a morning text, because regardless of anything else, he's here for her: ]
What do you need today?
[ It could sound innocuous, like it's just about him picking up groceries or more toilet paper for them. (Of course it's not innocuous.) ]