Chapter 336 Ch Three Hundred And Thirty Six

• Nothing had made sense for days now, and even Malcolm's house had been a pathetic state of hollowing silence and loneliness. He sat slouched on his long leather couch, with his head hanging low, with a glass of iced grape juice sitting in front of him.
• He had poured it an hour ago, hoping it would help, but nothing could ease the heaviness in his chest. Since it wasn't whiskey, it was obviously not going to do anything and yet, he had to listen to her advice to stop drinking.
• The one woman who had been the source of his mild illness. Her suffocating silence and absence, goodness, was killing him.