Free Ghosts of War by George Mann

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    At Christmas, the last time he'd thrown open his doors for the interlopers, he had thought for a moment he had seen her there, standing in the doorway of the drawing room, dressed in a glossy red dress that matched her hair, beaming at him, an unfiltered cigarette clutched between the fingers of her right hand.
    When he had looked again, she had gone, and in her place stood another of those mindless girls who swished around in their party frocks, searching for oblivion, wishing only for someone to come and take them and fuck them and help them drink until they were sick. Only then would they feel able to tell their friends they'd had a “swinging time” at the party, that the other girls were missing out and that they “really must come along next time, there's a heated pool, you know! Be sure to bring a costume.”
    Gabriel hadn't been able to look the woman in the eye.
    As he dressed, pulling on his usual black suit and white shirt, leaving it open at the collar, Gabriel remembered Ginny.
    What had she been doing here, stretched out on his bed when he'd returned from the city? How had she known he would come here after all these weeks?
    In her way, Ginny was as damaged as he was. That much had become clear the other day, after the boxing match, when he'd taken her for a drink. It had always been there, of course, but he'd never thought to ask, never even tried to understand her. As far as he'd been concerned, Ginny was just another part of the lie that was Gabriel's life, along with the parties and the fast cars and the booze.
    At the time he hadn't seen the truth, hadn't realized what he could have had. Only later had that realization come, and by then it was already too late.
    Ginny had tried to know him once, to truly know him. Foolishly, he had locked her out, always keeping her at arm's length. She had stuck with him for some months, but after a while, worn down by the constant barriers, she had given up. Whether she'd decided she would never be able to get close to him, or that there was, in fact, nothing beneath that shiny veneer of Gabriel Cross, he didn't know. Whatever the case—one way or another he had lost her because he hadn't allowed her to get close.
    Now, though, she was back. Had she seen something different in him, this time? Had he given her a glimmer of hope? He wasn't sure that he wanted that. He certainly didn't want her pity. Yet something inside him wanted her to know he'd been wrong, all those years ago. That much was clear to him: this time there would be no secrets. No lies.
    She was still drinking. After the match the other day she'd dragged him to a speakeasy around the corner, a sleazy joint with sticky floors beneath a flower shop, where the barman knew her and had cracked open a bottle before opening time so she could have a drink. She'd polished off nearly a full bottle of gin, drinking it straight over ice, and Gabriel had had to practically manhandle her back to her rented apartment at three in the afternoon.
    Now, he could hear her voice drifting up the stairs, chattering away to Henry as he fixed her breakfast. He was probably grateful of the company. He'd been left out here, looking after the old house, while Gabriel had been living—hiding—in the city. Gabriel had offered to take Henry with him, of course, but the butler was having none of it, preferring to keep to his routines, perhaps knowing that it was only a matter of time before Gabriel deemed it appropriate to return.
    Of course, Henry didn't know anything about what had really happened before Christmas, but he knew about Celeste, had even helped Gabriel to bury her in the family mausoleum when he'd proved unable to locate any records of her family.
    Henry was a rock, and more than anyone he'd understood the need to give Gabriel space, to allow him to mourn in his own way.
    Gabriel didn't know what had made him return to Long Island last night. He'd haunted the rooftops of the city for hours, searching for any