“For what? Your father’s despicable behavior? Or that we had to deal with him? I can assure you, neither is even remotely your fault.”

His smile is dark and pained. “Feels like it, though. Fuck, I hate him.”

“He is a hateful man,” I reply softly.

Macon makes a noise of agreement, but it ends up sounding strangled. He ducks his head again, his fists clenching, and I don’t know what to say to make it better. I’m still reeling both over what George Saint said to Macon and the nasty way he treated us.

Macon’s flat voice breaks the silence. “Remember that time in seventh grade when I was distracted and collided with you in the science hallway, and you accused me of doing it on purpose?”

Given that I seem to have a photographic memory when it comes to Macon, I do. The memory doesn’t sting anymore but fills me with wry amusement. “Distracted, my aunt Fern. You denied it. Said you didn’t see me. But I’d yelled out a warning right beforehand, so how could you not have known I was there?”

Deep grooves line his tight mouth. “The reason I didn’t hear was because I had water in my ears from the night before when my father held my head down in the bath as punishment for coming into the house with dirty cleats.”

Horror flows over me in a ripple, leaving my head light and my stomach heaving. “Macon . . .”

“Don’t.” He holds up a hand, his eyes both hard and pleading. “Just . . . don’t.”

I halt, giving him the barest nod of understanding. There are times for comfort and times when an ounce of sympathy can break you.

Sadness shadows his eyes. “All those years, from the very first, you always seemed to know exactly what made me tick, and I swore you could see my every weakness. I assumed that somehow you knew I’d been beaten. It was so humiliating that I’d lashed out. I hated you because I thought you saw my shame. I thought you saw it every time you looked at me.”

“No,” I whisper thickly. “I had no idea that he . . .” I can’t finish without wanting to rail at the sky or turn around and hunt down George Saint.

Macon’s snort is weak and without humor. “I know that now. And I feel so stupid for my assumptions. And for befriending Samantha instead of you. Empty, shallow Sam, who would laugh at your discomfort and encourage my pettiness. I saw her as an ally. She and I were alike that way, lashing out at others until it became our idea of fun.”

Rooted to the spot, I search for something to say, but I’m struck mute.

Macon shakes his head softly and squints up at the sky. “So you see, I’m more like him than you think.”

That gets me going. “No. Not even a little. You said it yourself. He taught you to hate. The fact that you’re even worrying about being like him makes you nothing like him at all.”

Far from comforting him, my words seem to hit hard. His shoulders bunch under the fine wool of his jacket as his lips flatten. “He always used to say I was nothing like him. A complete disappointment.” Bittersweet eyes glance my way. “That it was to my good fortune I was his spitting image, or he’d think I was the plumber’s child.”

“He didn’t deserve you,” I snarl, giving the words Macon said to me about Sam back to him. “And he never will.”

A humorless smile barely touches his mouth. “He thinks he deserves the money, though. He’s been trying on and off to sue me for it since my mother died.”

“Truly?” Though I’m not shocked. Not in the slightest.

His expression turns grim. “Problem is, he signed an ironclad prenup.” At the sound of my surprised breath—because I was not expecting that—he meets my eyes. “My grandfather rightly believed my dad was a grifter. He insisted on protecting my mother’s assets. Dear old Dad got nothing but what he made on his own.”

“I’m astonished he agreed to it.”

“I think the idea was that he’d say yes to gain my mother’s trust, then charm her into tearing it up.” Macon swallowed with effort. “A failed plan since he couldn’t keep his temper for very long.”

Growing up, I barely saw Macon’s mother, but I remember her well—petite, bone thin, with chestnut hair that always fell in a sleek sheet to the tops of her shoulders. Her eyes, the color of a winter lake, were wide and round and haunted. There was a fragility about Cecilia Saint that made a person want to both protect her and feel just a bit sorry for her.

“Did he . . . did he hit her too?”

“No.” Something like gratitude softens his voice. “He knew better. You know the sad thing? She was divorcing him when she died. I found the papers. He hadn’t yet signed.”