I rubbed my face, walking back and forth in the narrow trail leading to the Winslows’ front door. “Who found him?”

“Hudson. He just brought him back. Your brother’s been drinking again, but, thankfully, he wasn’t harmful or violent in any way. His probation officer is on his way, but I’m sure we’ll be able to smooth things over. Hudson called the nice lawyer who helped us the other time, so I think—”

“Put Craig on the phone,” I cut her off. Maybe it was being bullied by Alex’s family, but I was in the mood for confrontation. For years, I’d felt sorry and apologetic for Craig. For his lost opportunities and shattered dreams. Well, I no longer did. I felt sorry for his doting wife, for his beautiful, healthy kid, and for his sister. Me.

“Indie…”

“Put. Him. On. The. Phone,” I enunciated every word, like Alex did when he wanted people to feel like idiots. Which he did. Often.

A few seconds later, the labored breaths of someone who had a lot of adrenaline—and alcohol—in his veins sounded from the other line, and I took a shaky breath to slow down my pulse.

“Craig Bellamy, you’re an asshole,” I said. When he didn’t answer, I continued. “You’ve been given so many opportunities throughout my short yet stressful trip across the world, and you blew every single one of them. It’s fine. You don’t owe me anything. You really don’t. But that wife of yours? You owe her the world. She didn’t sign up for this when she married you. Your son? He deserves so much more. He is worthy of a loving dad who is there for him, who takes care of him, who teaches him stuff, and takes him places and reads him books. He deserves what you had. And you’re not giving it to him. I’m so mad at you.” I realized two things as the last words fell out of my mouth. The first one was that I was full-blown crying, and that was new. I didn’t usually cry. I was more of a holding-it-in-until-I-burst type of girl. The second thing I noticed was that I wasn’t alone. There was a man, wearing a black coat and a ball cap, standing on the corner of the street, lurking. He was talking on his phone and holding something in his hand. I glared, making sure he knew that I knew I was being watched.

“Since when are you in charge, Indie? Hanging out with your famous friends has gone to your head. Don’t think I haven’t seen how he’s parading you around like some kind of consolation prize from his real fiancée. You’re delusional if you think that…”

I didn’t bother to listen to the rest of Craig’s rant. I dumped my phone into my purse and took a few steps forward, leaning against the broken gate of the Winslow household, watching as three more men dressed in the same attire snuck into the neighborhood. They were multiplying by the minute, more and more of them flocking near the park and the church across the street.

The paparazzi .

My stomach coiled into knots and the need to storm down the street and give them a piece of my mind slammed into me so hard, I nearly toppled over. And I would. I so freaking would. Because Alex didn’t need this right now. At the same time, I knew that confronting them was a PR nightmare waiting to explode. If I confronted them, they’d just record the whole thing and upload it to every media outlet out there. And that would result in more of a mess in the already chaotic world of Alex Winslow. I curled my fists beside my body, took a deep breath, turned around, and walked through the door. Alex’s family was still in the kitchen. His parents were fighting loudly while Carly barked at the kids. I climbed upstairs, into the narrow hallway with the stained carpet and yellow wallpaper, drawn to Alex’s room like a magnet. The door was ajar. I leaned against its frame, watching him sitting on the edge of his childhood bed.

His room was small, square, and clean. A single bed—too short and too narrow for his out-of-this-world frame, was pushed against one of the walls. There was a Morrissey poster above his pillow, a Cure poster right next to his old-school computer monitor and cheap desk, and the guitar stand I assumed belonged to his late Tania, naked and empty of his favorite thing in the world. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking up at me.

“Happy now?”

My heart shriveled in pain, especially as the next words left my mouth. “Don’t look out the window.”

He walked over to the small window, ignoring my plea and scanning the neighborhood through dead eyes. “Oh, fuck.”

I couldn’t summarize the situation better. “I don’t know how they found out.”

He turned to me. “I do. My parents are going to get a nice check from this little stunt.”

Everything that happened from that point forward was so quick, so fast, I could hardly catch my breath. Alex stormed down the stairs two at a time, while I followed, calling after him to stop and think and don’t react . Which was very rich, considering I’d never been so deeply betrayed by my own family members, even when Craig was being unbearable.

“You cunt,” Alex growled, invading the small, crowded kitchen and pinning his father to one of the walls, his hand grabbing his dad’s neck firmly. The kids shrieked and, without thinking about it clearly, I gathered their hands and ushered them out of the kitchen.

“Here. Play with this.” I dumped the entire contents of my purse on the coffee table. My money, cell phone, snacks, everything, splayed before them, and I watched them tearing out the five and ten quid notes from my wallet, shouting through the roof. I hurried back to the kitchen, where Alex stood over his dad, hissing at him like he was about to kill him.

“You piece of shit! You sold me out! Again!”

“That was all on your mother, son. She wants new tits for Christmas. Kind of like Fallon. Mummy issues, much?” His father cackled, as if the entire thing was a joke Alex should be taking more lightly.

Louisa tried to break them apart without really putting much effort into it, careful not to get her pink nails broken in the process. “Calm down now. Just give them what they want and they’ll go away, Alex. A few kisses to the camera with the missus. Just like in Notting Hill .”

“Where did you get the idea that my life is a fucking rom-com? Who the fuck let you take me home when you gave birth to my sorry arse? Bloody hell.” Alex released his dad from his grip, running his big palms through his hair.

“Don’t talk to your mother like that,” Jim said.

“You talk to her a lot worse,” Alex deadpanned.