Photos of people I don’t recognise line the walls. Thistle’s not the type to fill the house with photos of herself. An umbrella stand with a lone umbrella is up the other end of the hallway, too far from the door to be practical. I move down the hall towards it. The bedrooms are to my right, the living area to my left. Both bedroom doors are open. Through the gaps I can see bookshelves, nightstands, a sliver of a bed. I’ve never been in Thistle’s bedroom, so I don’t know which one is hers. But one of the rooms has no books on the shelves, which doesn’t seem like her. I slip into the other one.

The heavy curtains are drawn. The bed is a single, with lavender sheets. A dream-catcher hangs from the lamp on the nightstand. The books on the shelves are new-agey—angels, tarot, the healing power of crystals. This isn’t her room.

I go back out. As I’m about to turn towards what must be Thistle’s bedroom, I notice something in the living area. From this angle I can see Tyrrell on the sofa, watching TV with the sound off. I wonder if he knows that Warner was on her way to kill me.

He sees me at the same moment as I see him. He jolts in his seat.

‘Christ, Blake,’ he says. ‘What happened to you?’

‘It’s a long story,’ I say. ‘The FBI agent—have you dealt with her yet?’

‘No,’ he says, getting up. ‘Still waiting for her to get home.’

I can’t tell if he’s being truthful. Would he watch TV if he was lying in wait? Would he stick around if he’d already killed her?

I didn’t think to take the Springfield from Warner before I came in. Stupid. Now I’m defenceless.

Tyrrell gestures at the TV. ‘Care to join me?’

He knows that I’m on Warner’s kill list. He’s trying to get me into a vulnerable position.

‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘Boss lady sent me here to tell you to call it off.’

‘Oh, she did?’ He doesn’t believe me.

‘You weren’t answering your phone. Come on, we gotta get out of here. Warner’s been shot. We need to get her to a hospital.’

‘Okay. Let me grab my things.’ His hand goes out of sight behind the sofa cushions.

I grab the nearest object—the umbrella in the stand—and throw it at him. It misses, but it throws off his aim. When he pulls the trigger of the Walther in his hand, a puff of plaster dust bursts out of the wall behind me as I run at him, reaching for the gun.

He backs away, but trips over the coffee table. Another bullet hits the ceiling. I jump on him and grab his wrist, crushing it until the gun slips from his fingers.