Thistle sends me a sidelong glance. Maybe I’ve been too specific. I need to find out why Biggs was in the woods without revealing that he was there.

‘I don’t think so,’ Luxford says.

I put the coffee down, and chew a fingernail. Then I deliberately rip a chunk out of it, and suck some air through my teeth. A show of pain. ‘Ow.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Thistle asks.

‘Just broke a nail. See?’ I show her my finger, where the missing piece has left a small part of my raw flesh exposed. Then I show Luxford.

Again, he doesn’t wince. ‘Nasty,’ he says.

Blood starts to well up. ‘You got a bandaid, or some gauze?’ I ask. ‘I don’t want to bleed on your carpet.’

That gets him moving. ‘I’ll find something,’ he says, and hurries out the door.

Immediately I go around to the other side of his desk and start opening drawers.

Thistle jumps up. ‘Blake—what are you doing?’

I keep rummaging through Luxford’s stuff. Pens. Notepads. Two keys on a small ring. Phone chargers. Glossy photo paper for his printer. An address book, probably for passwords. ‘He’s a sociopath,’ I say, ‘and he’s hiding something.’

Thistle grabs my arm. It’s been so long that her touch is electric. ‘Stop! You can’t do this without a warrant.’

‘We won’t get one. Do you want to find Biggs, or not?’

I’ve uncovered a bottle of vodka. Probably against the campus rules, but not illegal.

‘I can’t let you do this,’ Thistle says.

‘Then arrest me.’

She hesitates. And in that moment, I find what I’m looking for.

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 6

What was the first invention that could be used to see through walls?

One of the drawers feels wrong. It’s heavier than it should be, and shallower than the others. There’s a little groove on one side of the bottom, just wide enough for a thumbnail.

All my nails are bitten to the quick, so I use one of Luxford’s pens to lever out the false bottom. Underneath I find a photo, printed on glossy paper. It’s a picture of Luxford’s office. A young woman is sprawled across Luxford’s desk, chestnut hair fanned out, skirt hiked up, panties around her ankles.

Again, Thistle tries to stop me. ‘Blake, you—’

I hand her the photo, and she stops talking. There are more pictures underneath. The same young woman in different positions. She’s not supporting herself in any of the photos. She looks half-asleep, or drugged.

Underneath those pictures, there are even more. A different woman this time—Asian, naked except for high-heeled shoes. After her, there’s a redhead with a torn dress exposing the freckles on her stomach.