An intense anger swelled in him, and he looked around himself, into the forest. He staggered up and into the trees, the sounds of the smoldering car skeleton behind him. Matthew McConnell was here. He was somewhere nearby.

Had he planned this? Had he planned it all? Robin looked through the trees and started to run, dodging in between them.

“Where are you?” he said.

Had Matthew chosen Robin specifically? To get him out of prison? How had he done it—found out what he had about Sam? Was he really lying about all of it?

He pulled himself through an outcrop and just kept going. The figure he’d seen couldn’t have got far.

“Where are you?” he shouted, and it seemed to bounce off the trees. A bird fluttered out of a tree and startled him, but he just kept going.

Sam had been leading him here? Of course not. How could he have been so gullible, so profoundly stupid? And he had believed in Matthew—seen some kind of good in him.

“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” Louder. His voice cracking.

But there was no good in the world. Only different shades of bad. He wasn’t chasing Sam. He was chasing a murderer. Through the woods.

He emerged into a clearing, turned in a circle. No sign of anyone—360 degrees and nothing.

He breathed in and at the top of his lungs—

“Where are you?”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Robin had lost the concept of time, which was ironic, seeing as the only thing to focus on was the ticking of the insanely loud clock on the wall. The four walls surrounding him made him feel like it was where he’d always been—this was his home now. He prayed for something—anything—to occupy his mind. Anything other than the image of McConnell getting farther and farther away.

The door opened and a different man came in. No doubt to ask the same questions he’d been asked three times before. This man was young, scrappy, and he sat down with a manner that hadn’t quite matured. He placed a device on the desk in between them—a dictaphone. He went to press it and paused.

The door opened again behind him, and Robin watched as a familiarly imposing figure came in. Roger Claypath. He stood behind the young man, who pressed the button on the dictaphone and introduced himself as Fields.

He did indeed ask the same questions. How long was Robin at the supermarket? What attracted his attention to the crash site? Was there any indication that anyone else was watching? Had any other cars stopped to help? What happened when Robin got to the scene of the crash? What was Loamfield’s condition—was there any evidence of a struggle? How long did it take to rescue Loamfield? And how far did he pursue the figure into the woods?