Robin didn’t need to read the articles. He had lived them. But he did skim them to try to find his name. It didn’t take long. It was at the bottom of the first one:

Writer Robin Ferringham, who is known for hard-hitting memoir Without Her about coping with the disappearance of his wife and who has recently been seen around Marsden expressing interest in the Standedge Five case, aided The Red Door in their investigation. He proved invaluable in the search.

“Your name is attached to this thing now,” Loamfield was saying in his ear. “Hope you don’t mind. Seems to be the thing most people are latching on to. People love a celebrity, no matter how big or small. Hell, even if it’s one they’ve never bloody heard of.”

“I’m not a celebrity,” Robin said.

“Oh, Robin.” Loamfield laughed. “We all are now. We just played a part in what will be the sinking of Roger Claypath. I think that’s grounds for celebration.”

“The man is just trying to find his kids,” Robin said, and to reinforce that being the end of it, he changed the subject. “Claypath said Matthew is going home. When?”

“That was a recording that you just saw. McConnell’s being released in an hour. I’m on my way there now.”

Robin jumped up, spun around, finally eyeing what he needed to find. His car keys on the desk. He snatched them up.

“So am I.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Robin tried to reach Sally on the way to the prison. He wanted to thank her—thank her for getting him back to The Hamlet, thank her for getting the word out, thank her for everything. He still didn’t know how to react to her putting his name in the article, but if it meant it got more attention, then he didn’t blame her for doing it. She didn’t pick up. So he called again. Nothing. She was probably busy managing the inordinately high amount of website traffic. Robin had images of one of the computer towers sparking and hissing with activity and Sally running around it trying to repair it. He smiled as he pulled into New Hall and parked.

Reporters were still crowding the steps of New Hall. Robin walked up and slowed as he saw them. He had to get inside, and this wasn’t likely to be pretty. He thought maybe there was a chance the reporters wouldn’t have read The Red Door article, and even if they had, there was an even better chance they had no idea what Robin Ferringham looked like. But as he made his way toward the thrall, one reporter looked around and noticed him.

“Mr. Ferringham...” he shouted. And then the thrall was upon him, lurching forward in a collective swarm. He ran up the steps, barely keeping ahead of them, ready to be swallowed up.