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I keep punching, trying to drive her from my thoughts. Left jab. Right hook. Repeat. My knuckles are raw despite the wraps, but I don’t stop.

This is why I keep to myself. Every time I let someone in, they let me down.

My maw was the worst for it, blaming me for anything that went wrong, looking at me like she wished she’d had a different kid altogether.

I pause, breathing heavily. Even now, I don’t understand what I did to make her hate me so much. Aren’t mothers supposed to have some primal urge to protect their kids? Survival of the species and all that. Well, apparently I was so fucking unlovable my mother was able to override that maternal instinct.

When she left, when I was eleven, she said to me, “I can’t do this anymore. Not with you always making everything so bloody difficult.” Like I was personally responsible for driving her out of our house. Not Johnny. Not Da. Me.

Now, as an adult, I know that’s bullshit. I know she was unhappy in her marriage, unhappy with small-town life, unhappy with being a mother. It wasn’t my fault.

But as an eleven-year-old? I believed her. And that belief shaped everything that came after—the scrapping, the vandalism, the stupid choices. If I was going to be blamed for everything anyway, why not actually do something to deserve it?

I slam my fist into the bag one last time then rest my forehead against the cool vinyl. What I really want is a proper fight, the kind I used to have in those warehouses in Inverness. The adrenaline, the danger, the clarity that comes when it’s just you and your opponent and nothing else matters.

But I gave that up. I made a promise to myself: no more fighting. No more risking lives, mine or anyone else’s.

I step back from the bag and unwrap my hands, flexing my fingers. They’re going to be stiff tomorrow, but that’s the least of my worries.

Cat’s knickers catch my eye again, sitting on the garage floor. Common sense says I should lob them into the rubbish and be done with them, with her. I actually reach for them to do just that, then I hesitate. Can’t bring myself to do it. Bloody pathetic.

Ugh. Get a grip, Robbie. What I need right now is a plan. I need to figure out who framed me at the resort, and I need to do it without Cat’s help. I can’t rely on her, or anyone else for that matter.

I’m about to head inside for a shower when there’s the rumble of a car working its way along the dirt track to the cottage. I tense. Is it the police, coming to arrest me? Maybe they’ve concluded their investigation and decided I’m guilty. Or perhaps it’s Cat, come to apologise—or to stir up more trouble.

Either way, I’m not in the mood for visitors.

I step out of the garage, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight. A red car parks beside my motorcycle, then the driver’s door opens and a familiar figure steps out.

David Adefope. Johnny’s boyfriend.

He’s dressed in what can only be described as an assault on the senses: a yellow shirt so bright it practically glows in the sunlight, electric blue trousers, and thick-rimmed turquoise glasses that ride low on his nose until he nudges them back into place.

“Oh my!” His eyes widen as they take in my bare, sweat-slicked upper half, and for a second his jaw actually drops. Then he throws a dramatic hand over his face and peeks at me through his fingers. “I resist temptation! I’m taken—and it’s your brother I’m with!”

Despite everything, I can’t help but chuckle. His embarrassment is pure theatre—I know he’s loving every second. “Relax, David. It’s just a chest.”

“Easy for you to say,” he replies, still covering his eyes, his fingers spread wide enough for him to ogle me shamelessly. “Some of us aren’t used to Greek gods strutting around half-naked on a Saturday afternoon.”

Smirking, I grab my T-shirt from the workbench and tug it over my head. Just moments ago, I’d have bitten someone’s head off for disturbing me, but actually, David being here? I’m strangely glad for the company.

When Johnny first introduced me to David, I was a wee bit surprised. My brother, quiet and reserved, with this loud Londoner who dresses . . . well, like he’s on his way to a pantomime rehearsal? But then I saw how Johnny lit up around him, how David could make my brother laugh like nobody else could, and that was enough to win me over.

David and I are about as different as two men can be, but I’ve always looked out for Johnny, have done my entire life. Anyone who loves him gets my respect too.

He walks over to the garage, his eyes flicking around, taking in my tools and the punchbag still swinging on its chain, then they land on Cat’s knickers on the floor. He raises an eyebrow but, to his credit, doesn’t comment on them (thank Christ).

“Well?” I say. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to see you, David. But why are you here?”

“So, the thing is . . .” David leans against the garage doorframe. “Johnny’s been having a tough time this last week.”

I frown. “Johnny’s been having a tough time?”

“Okay, so maybe he’s not the only one,” David concedes with a small smile. “But he’s been out of sorts. At first I just thought it was because he was worried about you. I mean, he’s always worrying about you, but more so recently, of course.”

This catches me off-guard. I’d have said it was the other way around—that I’m the one always worrying about Johnny. But before I can question this, David continues.

“Plus, obviously he’s frustrated he’s been told to keep his distance from you while the police are investigating. But then today, when I was talking to him, I realised something else was eating him up, and I finally got it out of him.” David crosses his arms and fixes me with a piercing stare. “He confessed to me what you made him do, not tell anyone where he found that signet ring. More than that, lie to your da and the police about it.”