“I was angry. I’d been angry since things had started with Morley. And when you and I were struggling over the treasure—when you wouldn’t let it go—I hit you because…because I couldn’t hit him.” There was a burning sensation at the back of Alex’s eyes. “And then I kept hitting you, because it was the only way to save myself. To burn all of my bridges behind me. To do something unforgiveable. Something there was no going back from. Because I didn’t want to leave. You and the others…you were all I ever had.”

Tom fell quiet. His face was solemn, his eyes sad. For the barest instant, he resembled the boy he’d been so long ago. Young and earnest. “I wouldn’t call thrashing me unforgiveable,” he said. “Not after everything you did for me over the years. You protected me from Cheevers. From the other boys. Took beatings that were meant for me more times than I can count. If it wasn’t for you—”

“You’re rewriting history. Turning me into some self-sacrificing hero.”

“Do you imagine I don’t remember what you were like? It’s clear as day to me. To Justin and Neville, too. Why do you think they asked me to find you and bring you home?”

Alex bent his head. He felt a muscle spasm in his jaw. The very idea that they had been looking for him was as bitter as it was sweet. “Devon was never my home.”

“And France is?”

“No. I haven’t had a home. Not until now.” Alex looked up at him. “I’ve finally found some semblance of happiness. I can’t put it at risk. I can’t go backward.”

“You speak as though you have to choose between your past and your future. It doesn’t have to be that way. You must realize that.” Tom smiled. “Why else would you have given your wife that ring?”

Chapter 23

With Alex gone, Laura had nothing to do to occupy her thoughts. She paced the hotel room, a mass of anxiety throwing sparks in her chest. She sifted through all that her husband had told her. All the things he’d done as a boy in order to save himself. He’d beaten Tom Finchley. Had robbed him of a treasure trove of money and jewelry. Had run away, and never looked back.

Or so he said.

But something in Alex’s confession rang false to her. She was reminded of his history of half-truths. Of convenient fictions. The way he had of glossing over those chapters of his life that were too painful. Too difficult to face.

And this was surely one such chapter. The darkest yet, she’d wager. She’d never seen him so rattled before. So haunted.

What if he hadn’t gone to meet Mr. Finchley? What if he’d left Grasse?

What if he’d left her?