My first thought is that Vasquez is a hostage. But the other explanation makes much more sense.

‘I told you not to take the case,’ he tells me.

‘You did,’ I say. ‘It seemed suspicious at the time.’

It didn’t. But I’m at a hell of a disadvantage. Sindy is pointing a gun at my back. The three men are pointing guns at my front. The only person not holding a gun is Warner. All I can do is bluff. Act like I knew this was coming.

‘I always liked you,’ Vasquez says. ‘This is nothing personal.’

Warner cuts him off. ‘For me it is,’ she says. ‘You took advantage of my good nature, Blake.’

‘Is that right?’ I say.

‘You said you were quitting, and I let you,’ Warner says. ‘You said you wouldn’t tell the FBI what you knew. Immediately after that, I get a call from Vasquez, telling me that you’re looking for a blonde woman in her early forties. Later he calls again, and says you want a list of my old employees.’

‘He called you straight away, huh?’

Vasquez doesn’t look embarrassed. ‘You’re not in a position to criticise,’ he says.

‘He did,’ Warner says, ignoring him, ‘because he understands loyalty.’

The irony of a traitor being praised for loyalty seems to be lost on everyone.

‘I wasn’t after you,’ I say, because it’s the truth, and I can’t see another way out of this. ‘I was pursuing a lead in the Crawdad Man case.’

‘That’s interesting,’ Warner says, ‘because you appear to be the Crawdad Man. My boys have had a look around your house, where they found two of his victims—victims I certainly didn’t give you. And even though Vasquez tells me that you never received the list of my ex-employees, he was able to trace your phone to where Indigo lives now. Sindy—the very stripper-turned-hooker-turned-liability I was telling you about a few days back.’

Snowflakes fall through the beams of the van’s headlights. Clouds of condensation obscure the faces of Sariklis and Tane. I wonder how they got to my house before the cops did.

‘I’m not the Crawdad Man,’ I say. ‘Sindy is. She planted evidence in my house. She’s—’

‘I’m sick of your bullshit, Blake,’ Warner says. ‘It’s time for you to die. Painfully and publicly, so my other body-disposal guy will think twice about crossing me. But if I spread the word that you’re the Crawdad Man, the cops will think it’s a vigilante killing.’

Spread the word? Apparently she hasn’t heard that the police already think I’m the Crawdad Man. Vasquez must not have told her—I’m sure Thistle called him.

Warner shakes her head wearily. ‘Honestly,’ she says, ‘you almost ruined everything. If that FBI agent hadn’t called Vasquez directly, we wouldn’t have been able to contain the story.’