The way Ghastly's expression froze, flattened, went blank made any other words freeze in Dexter's throat. That was the look of the boxer, the fighter, at any other time ready to tear someone apart. Ghastly didn't get angry easily, but when he did ... well. All those rumours about his mother killing people with a punch weren't exactly exaggerated.

Proof. There was proof. Skulduggery had confessed?

No. No, no no--this wasn't happening. It couldn't, he didn't want it to be happening.

"It wasn't true," he whispered, unable to look away even if he wanted to. Something in his throat was tight, something in his eyes burned. "It wasn't--Descry didn't know for sure. He just had a bunch of little implications all stacked together. We just had a bunch of little implications all stacked together. Implications don't always mean anything. Hardly ever mean anything. What were we meant to do? Accuse him without knowing for sure? Ruin everything? The Dead Men were the only family we had."

They couldn't do that. That was why Hopeless had come to him. He'd wanted someone to tell him he was wrong, which Dexter was glad to do; someone who wouldn't be judgemental, which Dexter generally wasn't. At least, not in the way Hopeless didn't want him to be. Skulduggery was back. It didn't matter who he'd potentially been in those five years.

He was back. The Dead Men were together again. Their family--alive, still. All of them. Nothing else mattered.