‘I guess it does,’ I say. I make the universal sign for Can we get the check, please? to a passing waitress.

Freddie reaches into his jacket. ‘I’ll get this.’

‘Was that the kind of sequel you were waiting for?’

‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I was expecting something completely different. You’ve… changed. ‘You’ve turned it around, Rhi— whoever you are.’

‘Or so I’d have you believe,’ I say, placing my hand around the box.

Freddie looks at it. ‘You still haven’t told me what’s in there.’

‘Oh yeah. So I haven’t. And you know what?’

‘What?’

‘I’m not going to either.’

I slide out of the booth and slip back into my coat as Freddie slips into his. It’s gone 2 a.m. ‘There’s another bar down the street that stays open till four,’ he says, glancing at Google Maps as we gather our things.

‘No, thanks. This has been fun but I have a connection to make.’

Freddie shakes his head, helping me sling my bag over my shoulder and picking up my box before I can. I stare at him and he hands it to me. In the darkness of the bar I see the box is dripping at one corner.

Outside, he clicks on his Uber app – I hail a yellow cab.

‘You wanna share a ride? I can take you anywhere,’ Freddie offers. ‘If you’re going to the vaults now—’

‘No, thanks.’

‘It’s the least I can do. You’ve given me another whole book here. You didn’t tell me anything about Seren though. Or Ivy. What about them? You haven’t given me anything about them.’

‘Nothing to give. The best I can do for them both is to stay away.’

‘So you’re definitely not headed to Vermont now?’

‘Nope. Definitely not. Seren Markled me out of the picture long ago. And Ivy’s with Claudia. Safe. Secure. Claudia’s new husband seems to love her like a real dad. I’m letting sleeping dogs lie. I can’t afford not to.’

A cab pulls in and I open the back door, Freddie stands beside it, keeping it open while I put all my stuff inside. He hands me his business card. It’s a quality document, hard and gilt-edged – he has his own logo and everything – FLC. No company name. He is the company.

‘Wait,’ he says, ‘if you’re dead, how am I meant to persuade people that this is your true story?’

‘Not my problem, is it?’

‘Maybe I could say I met you just before you died, how about that? Rhi—? How about that? Wait, come back!’

I leave him standing there on the street, all frowny and lost, as I step inside my yellow cab and disappear into the night.

‘Greyhound bus station, please,’ I tell the driver.

Thursday, 23 January – Greyhound bus from JFK Airport, Queens to Manchester, Vermont