He got up, looking around for his phone. He found it on the desk, plugged in, charging. It stopped ringing before he was able to reach for it.

He saw the date on the home screen. Friday. It was Friday morning. Matthew was going to court.

Robin had failed.

Next to the phone, there was a packet of cookies. And a neon yellow Post-it note:

Gone back to The Door. Called the police about Man.

Going to write article. (Don’t worry, I’ve got this.)

SALLY

Sally. Had Sally got him back here all on her own? And what did she mean “I’ve got this”? How could she possibly “have it”? They’d run out of time—Matthew McConnell was going in front of a judge. And their arrangement would be void. Would Matthew still tell him what he knew about Samantha, from behind a set of bars?

No. The answer was no.

The phone rang again, and Robin unplugged it, holding it to his ear. He suddenly felt incredibly hungry and ripped into the packet of cookies, stuffing a whole one in his mouth, not caring about the person at the other end of the line.

“You beautiful bastard,” a familiar voice said. Loamfield. He sounded happy. “You know, I must admit I didn’t think you had it in you. The trial of the century just became the trial of the millennium. And I’m at the forefront. I just want to personally thank you for letting me be a part of this. I’m going to be a superstar. I just can’t believe it. I can hike up all my fees now. I can...” He continued jabbering on. Robin had no idea what he was talking about. He just finished his cookie and swallowed.

“What are you saying?”

This stopped Loamfield. “Don’t act like that—no need to be all humble around me, you glorious son of a bitch.”

“Loamfield, I have no idea what you are talking about.”

It seemed Loamfield believed him, because he grew quiet, and then just said, “Turn on the TV. Right now. BBC News.”

Robin sighed and fumbled around the room, finally finding the TV remote. He clicked it and the small box suddenly spluttered into life. He went to BBC News and saw a banner saying Breaking News. The image was of a building that looked very familiar—it was New Hall. A semicircle of people were gathered around the front steps, seemingly waiting for something. They all had microphones, or cameras, or boom mics, and there was a steady thrum of chatter. Until suddenly everyone collectively silenced.

“This was you, right?” Loamfield was saying on the phone, but Robin put it on the bed, staring intently at the television.