There was still mess from brunch that he hadn’t bothered to clear away. He’d been so keen to confront Romy that he’d raced round to the cottage the minute he’d waved them off to Manchester, hoping against hope that she would convince him she had no knowledge of the attack. Or, if she did, that she’d left Michael the moment she found out. But those hopes were now dashed.

He automatically began scraping the bagel crumbs and smoked salmon bits off the plates, emptying the coffee grounds from the cafetière and putting the remaining half of a lemon into the fridge. It helped to do something practical and mindless. But his body was so pent up, he knew this wouldn’t be enough to soothe him. He’d have to run it off later.

Grace had been pale and quiet when she came downstairs on Saturday morning. Finch wasn’t sure how to treat her. Does she want to talk about it? She’d flicked him a half-smile, but otherwise didn’t meet his eye, flopping down at the kitchen table, still wrapped tightly in her pink dressing gown, sleeves clutched over her hands, like a child. Last night’s tears were not apparent, but her eyes were swollen and over-bright.

He made her a strong cup of coffee in silence, which she took with a sigh, closing both palms around the mug as if to warm them.

‘I’m so sorry, Finch,’ she said.

‘Sorry?’ he exclaimed. ‘For God’s sake, Gracie! You don’t need to be sorry for anything. It’s me who should apologize for bringing up the past like that … although I’m glad you told me.’

She gave him a sardonic smile. ‘Really? Puts you in a bit of a tricky position with Romy, I imagine.’

Finch didn’t want to think about that at the moment. ‘It’s not healthy to keep something so serious bottled up, sweetheart. You should tell Sam – really, you should.’ He saw the immediate distress in her face.

She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’ But Finch didn’t think she sounded as definite as she had the night before.

‘He would understand. And you know he’d do anything to support you.’

Grace didn’t reply at once. Then she said, ‘Maybe. But why put that image in his head? It’s horrible.’ She gave a shaky sigh. ‘Especially when there’s nothing he can do about it.’

‘Still, now you’ve told me …’

She nodded and Finch decided to leave it at that. It was up to her, in the end.

‘French toast?’ he asked, knowing this was his stepdaughter’s favourite.