“Beckett,” Donnelly says. “What do you want me to say?” Beckett winces, hurt starting to cross his angelic features. “That I thought, in a momentary lapse of judgment or weakness, that you were doing this for me? That you would concoct some dumb, wild fake press story with my father and uncle to keep me safe from your family? Because I did. Because I thought you still cared about me and our friendship the way I care about…you know what, never mind.” He shuts down again and goes over to a chair, grabbing his T-shirt and jacket splayed over it.
