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My heart was racing. Why were we so scared of him? He didn’t look like he could do a bit of damage to someone. And it didn’t seem like he was here to harm us, either. And yet my nerves were on edge. My heart was pounding so hard I didn’t even think about it as my leg stepped backwards, and a stick snapped under my sneaker.
The man looked up, and for a moment, I came face-to-face with his arresting, blue eyes.
“HEY!” I yelled, and he turned and ran.
He was getting away.
And it was all my fault.
I scrambled on down the slope after him, hurtling past tree trunks and old bushes. A branch whipped my face, and I yelped out loud with the pain.
The man had turned and was running round the lake, trying to scramble down the hill towards the bottom of the drive where he’d snuck in. But the shore was muddy, and I saw him, moving in wide leaps across the mud.
At the foot of the hill, my feet skidded, and then I was level with the man, and I ran after him, hearing my breath roaring in my ears. I’d never exactly been the fastest in sports, but compared to the stranger, I could run like the wind.
I was almost caught up to him when the old man’s legs gave way, and he fell into the mud. On his knees, he turned and looked at me, and his hoarse voice echoed in a sharp cry: “DON’T! PLEASE!”
I stopped, skidding to a halt in the mud, and there I stood, panting and breathing warily. And when I looked into his eyes, I didn’t see wonder or that sad curiosity. Instead, I saw fear and realized that he was more scared of me than I was of him.
“Who are you?” I said. I could feel my lungs on fire from sprinting down the hill, and now I was angry. “Why have you been following us, huh? And don’t lie to me!”
In the darkness, the old man blinked. Slowly, he rose to his feet. I crouched a little, wary, wondering if I should run.
“I already told you,” said the old man, wheezing. His hands were covered in mud, and he looked a little pathetic as he slowly waded out of the bog and towards an enormous rock, further up the shore.
“Don’t try and run away!” I said, a little nervously. I could hear my own voice, high-pitched and squeaky. I wasn’t in a position to do anything.
“As if I could,” said the old man, as he sat down at the rock and lifted up his leg. I could see he’d hit it on a stone or something. It was bleeding.
“Who are you?” I said.
He looked up at me. I could see a sharp set of cheekbones between the lank, graying hair and the rough stubble. He’d been handsome once, long ago. And his eyes bore that familiar, icy blue, the same color as the lake that was shimmering next to us.
“I’m Max,” he said. “Max Lowe. I’m Alex’s father.”
My mouth opened, and I heard myself gasp.
“It was you,” I whispered. “You faked the birth certificate.”
“You’re a smart one,” said Max, looking down at the water. Hedidresemble Alex—if Alex had lived rough, not caring about his appearance for years.
“What do you want with Alex! Haven’t you done enough?” I said.
“No, I’m not here to hurt him. Or you, for that matter. Though Luca would have paid handsomely for it. Still, at least there are some things an old bastard like me knows better than to do.”
“So why are you here?” I said, warily.
“I’m here to see him,” said the old man, slowly. “Or try to.”
“And how did you know he was here?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve been following you. Well, following him, that is.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere I could find. After that bastard Desilva got to me, I didn’t really know what to do. I knew I had to see him. I knew that I had to look at the face of the son I abandoned,” Max said, in a shuddering gasp.
“You…” I seethed, “…betrayed him.” Why did you do it?”
