Maureen leaned in to him as tears spilled from her eyes. She dabbed at them with tissues pulled from the sleeve of her cardigan. My heart broke for them, cursed to keep coming back, because to stay away would dishonour Gemma.

Finally, Maureen spoke. ‘I get it now,’ she said. ‘There’s no such thing as justice, is there? There’s the law, but the law has nothing to do with justice.’ She nodded in the direction of the courtroom. ‘In there, they create a story that makes him innocent.’

John picked up on her point. ‘It’s like justice is over here.’ He raised one of his large labourer’s hands. ‘And the law is over here.’ He raised the other, held the two far apart. ‘And in the middle is this huge canyon.’

I looked at both of them and nodded. There was a cafe just down from the court, and I suggested we head there. In hindsight, it was a mistake to leave straight away. I should have remembered the inevitable press conference. By the time we walked out the front door, the steps were clogged with reporters and cameras, and the Shepherds and their lawyers were fielding questions: Noah! How do you explain a second victim? Do you feel targeted now? Can you get a fair trial?

I navigated through the throng, trying to clear a path for Gemma’s parents, hoping the press wouldn’t recognise any of us.

A loud familiar cocky voice. ‘I am innocent! Just like before. And no, I don’t think I can get a fair trial. The false accusation last time has made me a target.’

Noah! Noah! Members of the press squawked for his attention like he was a reality TV star, which I supposed in a way he was.

There was a gasp behind me and I heard two words: ‘John! No!’

I spun around just in time to see Gemma’s father, pushed beyond all endurance, shove two of the nearest journalists out of the way so that he was facing Noah Shepherd. Noah, standing smugly in his finely tailored suit, bookended by his wealthy parents.

And suddenly, there were no words, just slow motion.

A smug look turned to fear.

The O of mouths gasping in shock.

The clenching of a fist, the backwards swing of an arm in a flannelette sleeve, the power of a blow fuelled by fury and loss, the smack of connection, the instant drop of Noah Shepherd backwards onto the steps of the court, the steps of justice.

The sickening thud as his head hit the concrete. Hard.

Then screaming.

CHAPTER 33: THEIR PRECIOUS BOY

CHAPTER 33

THEIR PRECIOUS BOY