Two days later, Amber walked into my office without an appointment.

She looked around at the sample boards and the framed photos of finished projects as if they smelled bad.

“Cute,” she said. “Very... small business.”

“What do you want, Amber?”

She sat down and opened her handbag. She took out a cheque book.

“Fifty thousand pounds,” she said. “To walk away. Refuse the test. Tell Mr Hughes you don't want anything from the family.”

I stared at her. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you'll only humiliate yourself again. Everyone knows what you did seven years ago. Do you really want it all dragged up? In front of your son?”

“If Noah isn't Tom's,” I said slowly, “the test will say so. You'll win. You won't have to pay me anything.”

Amber's smile flickered.

“So why,” I asked, “are you so scared of a cheek swab?”

She stood up so fast her chair scraped the floor.

“You'll regret this,” she said, and walked out.

I sat there for a long time afterwards, thinking about a white Mini at the end of a dark road, its engine running.