Page 111 of A Convenient Fiction

“Which was the boy you saved? I assume it was one of them.”

“Cross. He was the boy who fell.”

“And you’ve never seen any of them since?”

“Nor do I wish to.”

“He wants to see you.”

Of course he did, Alex thought bitterly. Tom had nothing to fear. He hadn’t hurt anyone. Betrayed anyone.

“He said to tell you that he’ll be at the café on the corner at four o’clock. Alone.”

Alex glanced at the small porcelain clock on the mantel. It was a quarter to four already.

“You told me in Surrey that you and Mr. Finchley hadn’t parted on the best of terms. Does my ring have anything to do with it?”

He opened his mouth to reply, only to shut it again. He couldn’t lie to her. “Yes,” he said finally. “To a degree.”

“Can you not tell me?”

“It was a long time ago, Laura.”

“And as relevant today as it was then, I daresay. Else it wouldn’t cause you to look like that.”

He ran a hand over the side of his face. He didn’t know how he looked. Probably rather like he’d seen a ghost.

“Is it stolen?” she asked.

“No,” he said. And then again, more forcefully, “No. It was… It was part of a treasure trove. A bag of old jewelry and coins Finchley and I found buried in a wall beneath the abbey. It didn’t belong to anyone.”

She looked at him steadily, her arms still folded.

He slid his hand to rub the back of his neck. “The two of us went there after Cross had his accident. Thornhill remained behind at his sickbed. It was just Finchley and me. We didn’t expect to find anything. It was so much sport. And then, suddenly, there it was. A decaying bag filled with a few pieces of old jewelry and one hundred pounds in gold coins.”

Laura’s face went ashen.

“It was meant to set us all free. Thornhill, Finchley, Cross, and me. To get us away from the orphanage. To make us safe. And I took it. I beat Finchley nearly to a pulp, and I took it all for myself.”

Alex could remember it like it was yesterday. The feeling of his fist connecting with Tom’s nose. The crunching sound of broken bone and cartilage.

In the early days after he’d left North Devon, he’d often wondered what had got into him. What evil demon in his soul had prompted him to do that to his friend. But he could recall no legitimate reason. Tom had merely been there, trying to stop him. And Alex had been consumed with anger, too long suppressed. In that moment, it had erupted like a volcano.

He’d never forget the look on Tom’s face when they’d parted. It was forever burned into his brain. That stark look of betrayal—and rage.

He will hate me for this for the rest of his life, Alex recalled thinking.

And he deserved to be hated. Deserved to have his happiness taken from him.

He forced himself to meet Laura’s eyes, expecting to find an expression of disgust in them. Of disappointment. It wasn’t there. Instead, she regarded him with something like compassion.

Pray God it wasn’t pity.

“Why did you do it?” she asked.

He grimaced. Good lord, if she only knew. But there was no way on earth he was going to tell her about Gilbert Morley. That part of his history was too poisonous. Too depraved. He was resolved to protect her from it, whatever the cost. “I was all of twelve years old,” he said. “Desperate to get away. I didn’t want to wait on Thornhill’s strength, or Finchley’s strategy. I didn’t want to be there when Neville Cross died. All I wanted was to run. And so I did.”

She looked as though she wanted to say something—to ask him something more—but her eyes flicked to the clock. “It’s nearly four o’clock. If you intend to meet him, you should go now.”