CHAPTER EIGHTIt’s funny how the past can trip you up and send you sprawling. Michael sat with Laroche’s cellphone in his lap, the gnawing absence of his daughter twisted up with the guilt that never left him into a hard knot, a knot that had tightened as he’d listened to her talking; she was breathless with news. She told him that she was on a boat with her grand-père. It took him a moment to realise she meant his father, and the Dragonfly. He felt a twinge of jealousy at the thought of the two of them together, even though he’d agreed to it in principle. How dare he turn up, just like that, after – as if–?
“Do you mind if I make another call?”
Laroche pursed his lips together. He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, implying payment that Michael wasn’t going to think about.
“Just a sh
