She heard him sigh. ‘I can’t do this, Romy. It’s no good. You’re so invested in Michael. You obviously care deeply about his welfare, which is fair enough, but I just can’t listen to it any more.’

Romy held her breath, her heart thumping unevenly in her chest. ‘He’s a sick man, Finch. Daniel has to go back to Switzerland and I can’t just abandon him.’ She was close to tears.

‘I’m sorry about Daniel. But this thing with Grace has been such a shock. I can’t see how we can go back to how things were before, even if you do eventually get around to confronting him.’

Romy was offended. ‘Are you implying I’m dragging my feet? That’s not fair. I haven’t done anything wrong here.’ But even as she said the words, she felt a stab of conscience. Although she could in no way be held responsible for Michael’s actions, she must accept some responsibility for remaining silent and passive about the letter all this time. But she was desperate to get her point across to Finch. ‘I knew nothing whatever about any of this until her letter arrived, I promise you.’ She cleared her throat, her voice croaking as she tried to finish what she was saying. ‘But even if Michael did what he’s accused of, Finch, there’s nothing I can do now to make it better for her – short of going to the police, which Grace doesn’t want to happen. You seem to think I can.’

‘If, if,’ Finch said quietly. ‘You’re still wondering if he did it.’

‘Listen to me, will you?’ she said, almost shouting with frustration. ‘I accept something went on that night. But until Michael actually tells me, nobody can say for sure what it was.’

‘Except Grace.’

‘Yes, there’s her version. But there were two people in that room. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?’

‘Doesn’t seem to count as far as Grace is concerned. You’re obviously intent on only believing Michael’s version – if you ever find out what that is, of course.’ His voice was edgy with an uncharacteristic sarcasm.

‘I’m sorry about Grace,’ she repeated stiffly.

There was silence at the other end of the line. If Finch, at the beginning of the phone call, had had the slightest desire to mend the gulf that had sprung up between them, her seeming equivocation had just burnt that bridge to the ground. She was furious with him, but in that moment she felt her heart would break. Since the day she’d found the letter, she had felt its scattered contents spilling over her, invading her mind, her heart, even her physical body – always there, like a pernicious virus. She had never in a million years anticipated such a cruel denouement.

‘Goodbye, Finch,’ she muttered, and didn’t wait for his reply.