Rooted to the spot, I search for something to say, but I’m struck mute.

Macon shakes his head softly and squints up at the sky. “So you see, I’m more like him than you think.”

That gets me going. “No. Not even a little. You said it yourself. He taught you to hate. The fact that you’re even worrying about being like him makes you nothing like him at all.”

Far from comforting him, my words seem to hit hard. His shoulders bunch under the fine wool of his jacket as his lips flatten. “He always used to say I was nothing like him. A complete disappointment.” Bittersweet eyes glance my way. “That it was to my good fortune I was his spitting image, or he’d think I was the plumber’s child.”

“He didn’t deserve you,” I snarl, giving the words Macon said to me about Sam back to him. “And he never will.”

A humorless smile barely touches his mouth. “He thinks he deserves the money, though. He’s been trying on and off to sue me for it since my mother died.”

“Truly?” Though I’m not shocked. Not in the slightest.

His expression turns grim. “Problem is, he signed an ironclad prenup.” At the sound of my surprised breath—because I was not expecting that—he meets my eyes. “My grandfather rightly believed my dad was a grifter. He insisted on protecting my mother’s assets. Dear old Dad got nothing but what he made on his own.”

“I’m astonished he agreed to it.”

“I think the idea was that he’d say yes to gain my mother’s trust, then charm her into tearing it up.” Macon swallowed with effort. “A failed plan since he couldn’t keep his temper for very long.”

Growing up, I barely saw Macon’s mother, but I remember her well—petite, bone thin, with chestnut hair that always fell in a sleek sheet to the tops of her shoulders. Her eyes, the color of a winter lake, were wide and round and haunted. There was a fragility about Cecilia Saint that made a person want to both protect her and feel just a bit sorry for her.

“Did he . . . did he hit her too?”

“No.” Something like gratitude softens his voice. “He knew better. You know the sad thing? She was divorcing him when she died. I found the papers. He hadn’t yet signed.”

We’re both silent for a moment. My throat is thick and sore, the need to give him a big hug fairly strong. But I stay still. “I’m sorry, Macon. I’m sorry the wrong parent left you and the shitty one keeps finding ways to hurt you.”

A car drives by, kicking up dust and swaying my skirts. Macon doesn’t flinch but studies me with solemn eyes. “You’re adopted.”

The ghost of George Saint’s hateful words punches into my heart. “Yes.”