He forced himself to meet Laura’s eyes, expecting to find an expression of disgust in them. Of disappointment. It wasn’t there. Instead, she regarded him with something like compassion.

Pray God it wasn’t pity.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

He grimaced. Good lord, if she only knew. But there was no way on earth he was going to tell her about Gilbert Morley. That part of his history was too poisonous. Too depraved. He was resolved to protect her from it, whatever the cost. “I was all of twelve years old,” he said. “Desperate to get away. I didn’t want to wait on Thornhill’s strength, or Finchley’s strategy. I didn’t want to be there when Neville Cross died. All I wanted was to run. And so I did.”

She looked as though she wanted to say something—to ask him something more—but her eyes flicked to the clock. “It’s nearly four o’clock. If you intend to meet him, you should go now.”

“Laura—”

“You’ll have to hurry.”

Alex pushed his fingers through his hair. “I needn’t meet him. You and I can leave Grasse. We can—”

“I think you should speak with him,” Laura said. “No more running.”

Emotion tightened his throat. “Yes,” he agreed at last. “As you say.” His voice was a hoarse rasp. “No more running.”

He swept up his hat as he walked to the door, casting one last look at Laura before he left the room. Her mouth tilted up in a faint smile of encouragement.

The sight of it hardened his resolve.

Minutes later, he entered the small café at the end of the street. It was filled with tourists and locals enjoying afternoon cups of tea and coffee. The air was redolent with the fragrance of freshly baked pastries and bread.

He scanned the crowd, grateful for his height. It allowed him to see over the heads of the patrons at the small tables near the front of the café, and to the back corner, where a gentleman sat alone at a table.

A gentleman wearing silver spectacles.

Alex’s gut clenched. He stared at the man for a moment. A man who was, undoubtedly, Tom Finchley.

Tom saw him, too. He gave him an arrested glance. And then he stood, waiting.

Alex crossed the room to meet him. When he reached the table, he stopped, not two feet from his former friend. And they looked at each other. They simply looked—studying each other’s faces in taut silence.

Tom was the first to break it. “How much you resemble Justin.”

A spasm of emotion nearly stole Alex’s voice. “You’ve seen him?”

“Quite recently. We’ve remained close over the years.”

“And Neville?” Alex asked. “Did he…?”

“He’s alive,” Tom said. “Thriving.”