Joel wasn’t out of the woods just yet – there was a lot of explaining to be done before he was allowed to leave the state of California, and even though he was out on bail, the police were far from satisfied that he was not guilty of something or other. This wasn’t enough to keep him in the state pen, however, and so, at last, he was free to visit Will, who was convalescing beside the pool at Mike Christian’s house. Isabelle may have left, and Will certainly wouldn’t put money on her coming back, but there had to be some advantages to having a best friend shagging a rock star, and at times like this a comfortable bed, a pool and a retinue of staff were very welcome.

Will had lost a lot of weight after the attack; he’d been in hospital for nearly a month, and had only just started eating again. He slept a lot, and spent most of his waking hours trying hard not to cough, sneeze or laugh, it hurt his broken ribs so much. But there were no signs of brain damage, his heart was behaving itself, and the other major internal organs had escaped unscathed. The doctors told him it was little short of a miracle that he’d survived, and Will felt rather smug about that.

The housekeeper showed Joel out to the pool, where Will was lying on a recliner in the shade of a canvas awning, an open book face down on this stomach, his eyes hidden behind a huge pair of shades. It was impossible to tell if he was awake. Joel’s heart jumped, and he felt a sudden urge to turn and run, never to see Will again, to return to whatever life he had left behind in Australia and dismiss the last year as a nightmare.

He stood frozen in the doorway, the light of the afternoon sun dazzling him.

‘Come to say sorry?’

He wasn’t asleep, then.

‘Yeah,’ Joel mumbled.

‘Didn’t quite hear that. Speak up.’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘Right.’ Will pulled his legs up one at a time, slowly, painfully, to make space for Joel beside him. He patted the recliner. ‘Come on, then. Say what you’ve got to say.’

Joel sat, his hands pressed between his knees, his toes turned in, staring into the hazy middle distance.

‘He told me he wanted to kill you.’

Will didn’t need to ask who. ‘And you didn’t think to mention this to me?’

‘I didn’t know what to do. He told me I’d go to prison if I said anything.’

‘I see.’ Will took off his sunglasses; his eyes were still bruised, one of them badly bloodshot. ‘And that was worse than me dying.’

‘I thought he was bluffing.’

‘People like Rivelli don’t bluff.’

‘I know that now. I’m sorry.’