Page 58 of The Photograph

Well, I know he hasn’t told his family. But he uses a different name? Cold shoots through me. “Your name isn’t Alex?”

“Of course it is! The only thing I’ve lied about is my surname,” Alex growls, pink creeping into his cheeks.

But Tom’s eyes are narrowed on him. “Do you know what they did to me?”

Alex closes his eyes.

“They banned me from the synagogue. The rabbiadvisedmy parents on how to ensure I was well and truly ostracized—from the community, from myfamily.”

He gets hold of Alex’s shoulder and shakes him. “Are you listening to me?”

“Hey,” I say, standing up next to them. “Cut that out.”

“Do you even fucking care, Alex?” His eyes swing to mine. “He stopped texting me, wouldn’t respond. Like I was some bug he had to scrape off.”

I eye up the guy and make a snap decision. We can’t have a stand-up fight in a smart bar in Manhattan. “No one is who they appear to be on Grindr,” I say, waving my arm around. “And nothing on that app surprises me any more: I’ve been discovered by disgruntled wives and thrown out of apartments with no clothes on.”

Perhaps I was exaggerating a bit with that last one. Alex gapes at me, and I shrug, trying to tamp down the wobbliness bubbling up through me. My eyes flit over Tom’s suit.

Tom sneers. “You met this guy on Grindr? Dear God! How low can you go?”

Excuseme?

Tom’s fists clench, and then he shakes his head. “Did you hear what I said?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Tom’s eyes scan down my body. “And presumably you don’t care.”

AndJesus. I open my mouth to tell him where to go, but then he says, “He’s Alex Sachs.”

I frown at him. What? Then the penny drops, ohthatJewish family. Really? Alex told me his dad was a financial analyst, but he never said that he …

Alex rolls his eyes. “There are thousands of Sachs in New York, Tom. I’m from the poor end of the family tree.”

“And I’ve been the poor end of it for the last year,” Tom spits. “Everything just gone.” He snaps his fingers.

“So not Alex Blackman, then?” I say.

Toms laughs as Alex’s mouth pinches. He stares at the view of Manhattan out the window of the rooftop bar, jaw tight. What do I do here?

The waiter appears, hovering with a menu, but Tom shakes his head. “I’m not staying,” he says. He points a finger at Alex. “Don’t trust him,” he says and walks out.

I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “What the hell was all that?”

Alex sinks into his seat and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Tom’s my cousin. We had a thing about a year ago. He’s a couple of years older than me, and he didn’t keep it quiet from his family and they disinherited him. He blames me for it.”

Disinheritedhim? “How much are we talking about?”

“Probably enough to buy an apartment in Manhattan.”

Jesus.That’s no small change. No wonder the guy is pissed. Alex gazes down at his hands, mouth a grim, flat line. What do I say here? I sink back down into my seat.

“Do you Jewish guys love drama or something?” I say.

Color starts to return to Alex’s face. “Did you really just say that, Des?”

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