He ducks his head again, his jaw working, then turns to glance out at the city below. His thumb drums upon the metal roof in a hollow rhythm. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? Your father’s despicable behavior? Or that we had to deal with him? I can assure you, neither is even remotely your fault.”

His smile is dark and pained. “Feels like it, though. Fuck, I hate him.”

“He is a hateful man,” I reply softly.

Macon makes a noise of agreement, but it ends up sounding strangled. He ducks his head again, his fists clenching, and I don’t know what to say to make it better. I’m still reeling both over what George Saint said to Macon and the nasty way he treated us.

Macon’s flat voice breaks the silence. “Remember that time in seventh grade when I was distracted and collided with you in the science hallway, and you accused me of doing it on purpose?”

Given that I seem to have a photographic memory when it comes to Macon, I do. The memory doesn’t sting anymore but fills me with wry amusement. “Distracted, my aunt Fern. You denied it. Said you didn’t see me. But I’d yelled out a warning right beforehand, so how could you not have known I was there?”

Deep grooves line his tight mouth. “The reason I didn’t hear was because I had water in my ears from the night before when my father held my head down in the bath as punishment for coming into the house with dirty cleats.”

Horror flows over me in a ripple, leaving my head light and my stomach heaving. “Macon . . .”

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand, his eyes both hard and pleading. “Just . . . don’t.”

I halt, giving him the barest nod of understanding. There are times for comfort and times when an ounce of sympathy can break you.

Sadness shadows his eyes. “All those years, from the very first, you always seemed to know exactly what made me tick, and I swore you could see my every weakness. I assumed that somehow you knew I’d been beaten. It was so humiliating that I’d lashed out. I hated you because I thought you saw my shame. I thought you saw it every time you looked at me.”

“No,” I whisper thickly. “I had no idea that he . . .” I can’t finish without wanting to rail at the sky or turn around and hunt down George Saint.

Macon’s snort is weak and without humor. “I know that now. And I feel so stupid for my assumptions. And for befriending Samantha instead of you. Empty, shallow Sam, who would laugh at your discomfort and encourage my pettiness. I saw her as an ally. She and I were alike that way, lashing out at others until it became our idea of fun.”