Emma found herself looking at the home phone, goose bumps mottling her arms as she remembered how she’d felt each time it had rung. Late at night. Early in the morning. Soft breathing down the line. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“I bottled it every time. Always ended up tongue-tied. So I’d wait a few seconds, hoping I could get my shit together, then start panicking about the silence and eventually hang up.”

“But . . .” She struggled to take it in. “The number was always withheld.”

“Must be a setting on Dad’s phone. There’s pretty much no mobile signal out there, so I usually used the landline in his office. I didn’t want to talk to you over Skype—it’s too awkward. I didn’t mean to scare you or anything.”

Emma pulled back her hair and flattened it beneath her palms. She was trying to stay calm. Trying not to shout, Well, you did scare me. For God’s sake, I’ve barely slept.

Gilbert had woken. She could see Zeb frowning at the snuffly noises coming from inside the cupboard, trying to work out what they were. He hadn’t even met her sad little attempt to make the place feel less empty. Probably thought she’d acquired a rat problem.

“What about the other stuff?” she asked.

He exhaled through his nostrils.

“I have no idea. I’m just certain it wasn’t Dad. He wouldn’t do that. Please, can you drop your campaign against him?”

She clasped his hand. “I was only ever trying to protect you.” Even as she said it, she wondered how true it was. Had she been protecting Zeb or herself? She couldn’t help thinking of Steph again: Who was she protecting with her secrets?

Zeb let her hold his hand for a moment, looking down at her, so tall and grown-up yet still with that potent teenage angst. Then he slid his arm free and turned toward the door.

“You’re not going?” she said in alarm.

His head was dipped as if he was already prepared for the flashing cameras. “I’ve said what I needed to.”

“Wait, Zeb! I have to ask you something!”

He paused, turning back. He was twisting the cuffs of his hoodie around his thumbs, a habit he’d had since he was young.

“Did you and Freya meet up more than once?”

His eyebrows lowered as he seemed to absorb her question. Then he shrugged, and released his cuffs, adjusting his hoodie with a tug of the hem. “Yeah, actually.”

Emma breathed slowly in and out.

“We became mates, sort of. Used to meet up sometimes. It was no big deal.” There was a slight catch in his voice, and he glanced up at the ceiling.

“Why did you say you’d only spent that one evening together?”