And considering he’d pretty much lost his entire life, that was saying something.

  There was just something about her. Something that… grabbed him.

  She obviously didn’t feel the same.

  The sun was rising over his estate as he reached the gates, and a couple of paparazzo sleeping on the sidewalk sprang into action. These guys really needed to get a life.

  May as well make it worth their while. He flipped them the V-sign and their flashbulbs popped like strobes.

  That would be on every online celebrity site by lunchtime, all of them with a sensationalist headline and a team of experts quoting information from ‘inside sources’ to have an informed debate as to whether or not he’d lost the plot. They would conclude that he had. He wasn’t sure he disagreed.

  Back in the house, he headed for the shower, dropping his clothes across the room on the way there.

  No sign of Jenny – obviously staying with Darcy. And if she was there, the kids were probably there too.

  So yet again he was here alone. Karma was a bitch and she was dishing it out to him.

  Had it all been just one big set-up? Was this another Lana Delasso? A game that ended with ‘Loser’ at the end of his name?

  Going to Sarah’s hotel had felt like a risk, and had taken more bottle than standing in front of the press hounds begging for forgiveness. Making love to her had been amazing, but she couldn’t wait to get rid of him afterwards.

  He wasn’t going to hang around for that kind of rejection twice.

  Done. Gone. Lesson learned.

  Out of the shower, naked, he crossed to his bed and crashed down on the duvet. Fuck it, he was staying here all day today. And tomorrow. Maybe all week.

  The clock beside his bed said six thirty when he drifted off to sleep. It said eleven thirty when he woke up, and eleven thirty-five when the thoughts that were floating around in his head settled into some kind of understandable form.

  Sarah. Last night. Rejected him. But rewind. Before that.

  On the boat. He wanted her. And then…

  The picture. There was something wrong with the picture. He studied a snapshot of the image in his mind.

  Maggie Leith. Marilyn McLean, cosied up to Jono. Ena Johnston, his mum, on the other side. The other side. The hand. There was a hand curling round the back of her neck, so that only the fingertips were visible in the photograph.

  In his whole life, he’d never once seen any man touch his mother.

  So why was she allowing Jono Leith to hold her like she belonged to him?

  60

  ‘HYMN TO HER’ – PRETENDERS

  At 2 a.m. that morning, Zander had stood in the doorway of the hospital room for a moment, his legs locked, unable to move, to do anything but just look at her, head bowed, her hand still clasping Chloe’s.

  From there it had looked like they were both sleeping. Chloe, so peaceful, with no sign of the sullen frown or the angry glare that he’d become so familiar with.

  She’d been such a sweet kid. Angry. Wild. But under all that, he could relate to the troubled soul that lay beneath. There didn’t even have to be a reason for it. Sure, his early life hadn’t been great, but that didn’t mean he had any more right to be a fuck-up than anyone else. Chloe’s idyllic childhood didn’t mean she had any less.

  Eventually, he’d found the strength in his legs to move forward, to touch Mirren’s shoulder. As her face turned up to his, he’d flinched at the utter agony that seeped from every pore.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he’d whispered. Kneeling down, he’d silently wrapped his arms around her and let her fall into him. Still her right hand hadn’t left her girl.

  Zander had felt the vibrations of her shaking body and knew that no matter how tightly he held her, they would never stop.

  He knew because they’d been here before. Mirren. In unbearable pain. Zander. Feeling partly responsible.

  If only he’d taken Chloe under his wing more. If only he’d got her more help. If only he’d understood how badly this would end.

  If only they’d never met and Mirren McLean hadn’t been raped by his father, hadn’t written the script, they hadn’t made it into a movie that changed their lives.

  If only. If only they hadn’t disappeared from each other’s lives for twenty years. But it had been too much for him. He couldn’t handle the shame that their new lives had been built on evil. His father’s evil.

  ‘I tried, Zander, but I couldn’t help her. I couldn’t make her stop.’

  ‘Shhhhh.’ He’d stroked her hair, listened to her sobs, acknowledging the pain he was feeling and understanding that hers was a million times worse. In his peripheral vision, he’d seen a nurse hover at the door and then leave.

  Her face against his shoulder, tears soaking his T-shirt, Mirren’s voice had been a choked whimper. ‘I don’t know what to do now. Don’t know how to breathe without her here.’

  Still stroking her hair, Zander had murmured soothing words for a long, long time, until the tears were dry and they’d sat there in silence, clinging to each other, saying nothing at all.

  ‘I’ll stay here with you for as long as you need, but we have to let the nurses work now, Mir. Let me take you home. I’ll stay with you there too. I won’t leave you, I promise.’

  Eventually, she’d nodded, and supporting her like a child, he’d helped her to her feet. Zander had reached out and gently traced his finger across Chloe’s cheek.

  ‘Goodnight, beautiful girl,’ he’d murmured softly.

  Beside him, Mirren had leaned over and kissed her girl again. More noiseless tears, the silence of her pain making his head roar.

  ‘I love you, Chloe. I’m so, so sorry I couldn’t save you.’

  Mirren’s cheek had touched her daughter’s and stayed there, until he’d gently lifted her away. They’d stayed in the room for a few more hours. The nurses pulled the curtain around the bed as they disconnected machines, and tended to Chloe’s body, while Mirren told him through tears and sobs what had happened. An accidental overdose. Not deliberate. She was certain of that and Zander was pretty sure she was right. Chloe had been troubled but she’d always struck him as someone who wanted to live, who truly thought she’d get better one day. He believed she would have. This was one mistake. One stupid mistake and it had taken her life. They still didn’t have all the answers. All they knew was that when she’d been in the induced coma, her heart had stopped and they’d been unable to revive her. Facts would come with the autopsy, but right now he couldn’t bear to think about that.

  He'd wanted to call Jack, but Mirren had refused to let him. ‘He knew we were here, he knew she was sick, yet he didn’t come back. He went to his girlfriend. He made his choice.’

  Zander had no idea what kind of man walked away from his sick daughter. A coward. One who couldn’t handle pain. One who cared more about himself, about his own feelings, than those of the people he loved.

  After a few tries, he’d reached Mirren’s friend, Lou, who was right now boarding a plane in Atlanta to come back to LA. And Mirren’s son, Logan, would be here late tonight too.

  After a few hours in the corner of Chloe’s hospital room, Mirren had finally found the strength to let him take her home. She’d gone back to her daughter’s bed, said more goodbyes, held her, kissed her, cried before letting go for the second time.

  They’d only gone two steps when her legs buckled. With the reactions of a sober man, he’d caught her, swept her up and carried her to his car. There, he’d taken a blanket from the trunk, wrapped her in it and placed her in the passenger seat, holding her hand until they reached the gates of the Colony. The security guard had waved them through. At the house, he’d lifted her again, carried her into the empty building, the hall littered with the debris of the earlier emergency call-out. A mask. Gloves. A discarded blanket. Mirren had just stared straight ahead, as if in a trance, swollen eyes wide open. To his right, he’d spotted a lounge area, took her through there and laid her down on the sofa, sitting on the floor beside her. This is what he should have done years ago. Taken care of her. Cosseted her. Stayed with her until the pain healed.

  That’s what he was doing now. Almost twenty-four hours after her call, the light was fading again and he asked her the same question he’d asked a few times already.

  ‘Mirren, are you sure there’s no-one else you want me to call? Tell me who you need.’

  ‘Just Chloe,’ she whispered, shivering now, despite the humid heat of the night. Acting instinctively, he climbed onto the sofa beside her, his arms around her, her head resting on his chest.

  ‘It’s so unfair, Zander,’ she said, her voice monotone, numb. ‘Why was it my girl? Why did God take Chloe and yet he let a bitch like Marilyn live?’

  61

  SILENT SCREAM

  GLASGOW, 1989

  Davie’s back door was closed but unlocked as always – no one would break into a house on the same block as Jono Leith. Mirren burst into the kitchen, but it was empty. She searched upstairs, but no one was there either. There was music in the bathroom. His mum. She always took her transistor radio in there while she was having a bath.

  Where was he? Where was he when she needed him? The hut.

  Bolting outside, she ran to the end of the path, every bone in her body aching, blood dripping from her head, her nose, from between her legs.

  When she burst through the door, Davie jumped up, thrust the cigarette in his hand behind his back, looking guilty. Eighteen years old, working down the local pub behind the bar, and he still hadn’t told his mother he smoked.

  There was a momentary flash of relief. ‘Bugger, I thought you were my mum there. I nearly…’ The realization. The blood on her face. The torn clothes. The matted hair. The red streaks on her bare legs.

  Another voice. Zander. Lying on the floor to her right. ‘What the fuck?’

  He was on his feet now, but Davie got to her first. Her Davie.

  ‘What happened? Who did this?’

  She buried her head in his shoulder.

  ‘Mirren, who? Who was it? I’ll fucking kill him. Who did it?’ He was screaming at her now, shocking her with his vehemence. Davie was the fun guy, the non-confrontational, easy-going one who didn’t have a temper, didn’t get angry, and now his eyes were blazing, face full of anguish.

  ‘Oh fuck. Mirren, was it Jono?’ Zander asked, his strangled voice unrecognisable.

  ‘Was it?’ Davie wailed, his eyes seeking answers in hers. ‘Was it Jono?’

  The involuntary sob, a guttural cry from her throat was all the answer he needed, and suddenly he was gone, barging out of the hut, Zander running with him.

  ‘Leave it, Davie. I’ll get him. I’ll get him,’ Zander thundered. Davie didn’t stop, kept running, Mirren now tearing after them both.

  This wasn’t what she meant to happen. Davie didn’t have the strength to go against Jono Leith, but Zander… Oh God, Zander did. This wasn’t what she’d wanted. Either Davie would end up dead or Zander would end up in jail and it would be all her fault.

  ‘Stop, please stop.’ Her screams got lost in the wind behind them.

  Davie reached the door first, kicked it open with a force she never knew he possessed, but then reeled backwards as Zander caught his jumper, swung him round, pushing him down to the ground and running in first.

  ‘He’s mine, Davie. Go home. Go fucking home.’

  Zander disappeared into the hallway, but Davie was back on his feet now, charging after him. Pain ripping her insides apart, Mirren was too slow to stop him. She could only follow as they stormed down the hall. At the end, she could see Zander burst open the kitchen door and then freeze. Jono must be there. Must be waiting for him. With what? A knife? A gun?

  Oh God, she’d caused this. Whatever happened now would be all her fault.

  In front of her, Davie reached Zander and mirrored his reaction. Sudden brake. Completely still. Running on pure adrenalin, it took a split second to get to them, another to push through where they were standing, another for her to make sense of the scene.

  Sitting on a chair at the table, her mother. But it wasn’t a Marilyn she recognized. This one had black tramlines running down her face from her eyes to her jaw, her hair dishevelled, blonde tendrils escaping from the ponytail she always wore because Jono liked it. But it was the spatter that took Mirren’s breath away. Her mother sat there, not moving, face blank, covered in drops and dashes of red blood, all over her face, her hair, her neck and… Oh no. Mirren couldn’t bear to look, yet she couldn’t turn her head away. One shoelace-thin strap of her mother’s baby-doll had snapped, the fabric had dropped to reveal a huge white breast, smeared with blood, her mother making no effort to cover it up, as if completely oblivious.

  Mirren’s eyes followed Marilyn’s dead stare, downwards, to her right, where Jono Leith lay on the floor, a knife sticking out of his chest, a pool of deep red liquid still moving, spreading around him. His chest didn’t rise. It didn’t fall.

  Mirren pushed past Davie and Zander and rushed towards her mother. Marilyn, still staring at Jono, wordlessly put a hand up to stop her.

  ‘Mum?’ Mirren gasped. No answer.

  ‘Mum?’ she tried again. Then, ignoring the lack of response, went on, her voice soft, tender, ‘I can’t believe you did that for me.’

  Marilyn finally turned to look at her, eyes still dead, her actions almost robotic.

  ‘I didn’t do it for you,’ she said, in a voice devoid of emotion. ‘I did it because he wanted you instead of me. I did it for me.’

  ‘No,’ Mirren wailed, tears falling. ‘No, Mum, say that’s not it. Say…’

  Davie’s arms were around her now, and for the first time he spoke to Marilyn. ‘You fucking bitch,’ he spat.

  Marilyn didn’t react. Zander did.

  ‘Look, what are we going to do here? It’s too late for him, but Mirren, do you need a doctor? An ambulance? Do you want us to phone the police? Whatever you want. Anything.’

  ‘No!’ Mirren knew instinctively that couldn’t happen, grasped the implications immediately. He’d raped her, but he was dead. The thought of her mother being taken away, of having to relive this every day in the eyes of other people, to have them pointing, talking. And then there would be a trial. Evidence. And Zander’s mum’s life would be destroyed too. And the whole world would know that Mirren had been raped by Jono Leith. And for what? Justice? There had been none of that round here for any of them since the day they were born.

  No. She didn’t want any of that. All she wanted was to get away from here and to forget.

  ‘Davie, help me,’ she begged.

  Davie was always the fastest thinker of them all, the sharpest, the one with the ideas, and he didn’t let her down.

  ‘Oh fuck, we’re going to get jailed for this, but we can take care of it. Mirren, you stay here and get this place cleaned up, get her in a bath,’ he said, gesturing to Marilyn. Then back to Mirren, ‘Do you think you can do that?’

  ‘I think so. Yes, I can do it.’ The second sentence was stronger than the first, like she’d made up her mind, found some inner resolve.

  ‘OK,’ he said, opening the under-sink cupboards and taking out kitchen roll, bleach, cleaning fluids, then grabbing a mop and bucket from the floor-to-ceiling boiler cupboard.

  ‘There you go – do what you can. Me and Zander will come back and help you.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  Davie was one step ahead.

  ‘Zander, you grab his feet. I’ll get his arms. Let’s get rid of this cunt.’

  62

  ‘HOME’ – MICHAEL BUBLÉ

  GLASGOW, 2013

  Sarah almost hoped he wasn’t home. She just needed time. Space to think. And somehow, fourteen hours, alone, on two aeroplanes, just hadn’t been enough. Her brain felt numb, wasn’t kicking in when she really, really needed it to. How was she going to explain why she’d suddenly arrived back a day early? Really sorry, I had sex with a movie star, then thought I’d better come home because my life has somehow become one big lie? Or hey, Simon, missed you so much – except for that pesky couple of hours that I was naked on top of a guy I travelled thousands of miles to investigate.

  Oh, and yep, I did decimate both my personal and professional ethics in one fell swoop. Two for the price of one. Yay me.

  How low did that make her feel? Of course she had to tell him about Davie, and she would, just as soon as they had some time on their own together. She couldn’t keep that kind of secret from him. It would erode her soul. But right now, she couldn’t bear to hurt him. He was in the middle of a huge case, and she knew that she had to wait until that finished. There was enough on her conscience – she couldn’t add risking a cataclysmic upheaval in a lawyer’s life that could possibly affect the outcome of someone’s trial. Bad enough that she’d risked everything they had together. Destroyed it.

  The thought of not telling him, of carrying on like nothing had happened had crossed her mind, but she’d dismissed it. That wasn’t her. Sarah didn’t do lies – at least not in her personal life – and she didn’t do duplicity. Honesty was the only way. And if it cost her Simon, then that was her own fault.

  Besides, in her heart she knew it was over. She had enough emotional awareness to comprehend that if she truly belonged with Simon, she’d never have cheated on him, never have let Davie touch her. She didn’t understand it. Two weeks ago, she’d been sure she was in love with her boyfriend. But that was before Davie. Before she’d experienced a connection and a chemistry she’d never felt before.

  The thought made her wince. Davie. It made her stomach queasy every time she pictured his face. Hurt. Furious. He’d walked out without another word. Not that she blamed him. What a royal fuck-up the whole LA trip had turned out to be. She was left thousands of pounds out of pocket and had come home with no evidence, no story, just a broken relationship and a pain in her gut every time she thought back to how she’d behaved. That was karma for you.