He barely ate, pacing the house, checking his messages to see if Francesca had answered his later questions, rereading what she’d written, till Mac knocked punctually at eight p.m.

Mac grinned when Grady opened the door, four cans of Brewdog dangling from one large hand. ‘I knocked this time,’ he pointed out. His hair, as dark as Grady’s but cut short and conservative, danced in the wind.

Grady stood back and let him, accepting one of the Brewdogs, taking comfort from the feel of the cold can. Dutch courage might be what he needed as he questioned his big brother, the one he’d looked up to, loved, and pitied for being the one in their dad’s spotlight.

Mac followed him into the sitting room. His grin had been replaced with a concerned frown. ‘What’s up?’ he asked, perching on the sofa and snapping open the ring on a can.

Grady took his favourite chair, mouth as dry as ashes. It took a couple of pulls of beer before he could speak, the can trembling in his hand. ‘I don’t know how to say this. Someone messaged me to say that when you were a teenager you attacked Laurel Hill. Sexually. I have to ask if it’s true.’

He’d been harbouring hopes of Francesca’s messages being lies. Hoping Mac would be astounded and aghast, bounding to his feet, black brows beetling as he bellowed, ‘You can’t seriously believe that? Of me? How could you?’ But, instead, he had to watch Mac recoil as if it had been stones Grady had thrown at him, rather than words. His colour drained, even from his lips, while his eyes grew big and black with horror.

He didn’t ask who had sent the messages. He didn’t attempt to deny it or defend himself. He just looked beaten.

An icy hand closed around Grady’s heart. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he whispered.

Mac sat back – fell back – on the sofa. ‘It wasn’t how you make it sound.’ His voice was dull and despairing.

Grady became aware of sounds outside. A couple of cars swishing past the house, one pausing at the junction. A dull thud of a closing door … or maybe that was the sound of his hero toppling from his pedestal. A sigh began in the pit of Grady’s stomach, hurting his chest on the way out. ‘Tell me what happened.’ His voice was hoarse.

Mac stirred, taking a couple of sips of beer. ‘I’ll tell you how I saw it. I’m not going to make excuses, but I wasn’t the one with the plan that night – that was all Amie,’ he added bitterly. ‘I liked Laurel but I knew I wasn’t her type.’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘You were.’

‘You liked her?’ Grady demanded, thinking how he’d all-but dismissed the idea when it had come from Tonya.