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“Oh, stop. I’m trying to be serious.”

“So am I. It’s nice as hell to know someone thinks I’m amazing because when we get back to Houston, I need to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.”

I groan and drop my head into my hands. “And you’ve been doing so well.” I asked him to stop talking about Houston like it was a definite thing. We’ve been meeting with the private investigator, and the most promising thing we’ve discovered is that two of the people who testified to hearing me argue with my father left the village soon after, and when we traced them, they were living higher on the hog than pensioners from The Potteries should be. But that in itself wasn’t enough to make the Crown Prosecutor even give us an appointment.

Especially since the tribunal went as expected, and I’ve been officially disbarred from the Courts of England and Wales. I’ve thrown myself into making candles, and my Etsy store is doing well—I earn more there than I did as a pupil, and now I only go to the Effra as a punter. But I love what I did, and if I can get this conviction overturned then I can reapply.

But all of that is a pipe dream, and I need to manage my expectations.

“I was going to wait until we got home to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

He continues like he didn’t hear me. “Because I didn’t want to overshadow this visit.”

“Omar,” I screech and nudge his elbow.

He keeps his eyes on the road, his expression set on neutral, but he’s fighting a smile. “But I think I should tell you now because I think you’ll want him to know, too.”

“If you don’t start talking?—”

“I got an email from Noah Royale this morning. He and his mother are flying to London tomorrow.”

My excitement fizzles. “And?” I didn’t want to talk about them either. I was still sore from her rejection and in general didn’t want anything to do with them other than to forget them.

“He said he’d talked to his parents like we asked and even recorded it so he could listen to everything again to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.”

“And?” I repeat with exasperation.

“And…he sent me the recording. And I want you to hear the end of it.”

“Okay.”

“You ready?”

“Very.” I grip my hands in my lap and try to be calm and not scream at him to hurry.

He chuckles and then hits the play button on the dash of his car.

“Of course I knew. Do you think I’m an idiot?” a man’s voice shouts.

I hit pause. “Who isthat?” I gasp.

“Silas Royale,” he responds.

“That isnotSilas Royale. I heard him through the door. His voice is as gentle as a lamb. He’s not capable of?—”

“Stop talking and listen. You’re ruining the mood,” he snaps and presses play.

“Nick, what are you saying?” Nora’s voice cuts in, sharp and distressed.

“I’m saying you still loved him. You think I didn’t know that you were siphoning off my money to pay for your love child? Ifound your diary. And I found the transactions and decided to pull that thorn in my side out once and for all.”

“What does that even mean?” Mrs. Royale cries, and this time, her voice quavers.

“It means I hired some kid who was up for the job and paid him to get rid of both of them. I don’t know how she survived. But then it didn’t matter because everyone thought she did it.”

“You let a child go to jail for murder?”