Loamfield was in the hospital; he’d sustained a severe injury to the head. He hadn’t woken up yet.

Robin answered all the questions flatly, reciting them as if they were lines in a script. They might as well have been. They didn’t feel real.

This wasn’t happening. This kind of thing didn’t happen to him.

Fields stopped the recorder and left, but Claypath didn’t. Robin couldn’t meet his eyes, and only heard the scrape of the chair as Claypath sat down. They sat in silence for a while, Robin wilting under the gaze of the Chief.

“It’s a pity you didn’t take me up on that offer of a chat,” Claypath said, and Robin looked up for the first time. Claypath didn’t look angry, or sad, or disappointed—he was a blank slate. And why was that even scarier? “Things could have been different.” Claypath interlocked his fingers. “Shame.”

“Am I free to go?” Robin said.

“Of course,” Claypath said. “Unless you’ve done something unlawful?”

“Unlawful?” Robin said, “No. I helped you. I saved a man’s life.”

Claypath nodded. “Yes, you’re a regular superhero.”

“Do you have people looking for him?”

Claypath chuckled. “Of course we bloody do. I have the whole force combing the entire county looking for him. And what you’ve done, what has happened, has made national news. I can’t keep the Standedge Incident contained anymore. We have to find him.” But he didn’t look confident. In fact, in that moment, Robin saw a chink in Claypath’s armor. The part where the sternness subsided into uncertainty. Claypath liked everything to go his way, and as Chief of Police it almost always did. But this—this situation—worried him. No—more than that—he was afraid.

“Do you have people looking for the Monster?”

Claypath didn’t say anything. His eyes were a fire that had just been lit.

“Do you...?” Robin started again.

But Claypath interrupted. “This is a police matter.”

“But I deserve to...”

“This. Is. A. Police. Matter.” Louder.

“But I might...”

“Mr. Ferringham...” Louder.

“But...”

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” he bellowed at Robin, making him shrink away. His face had gone red, a vein pulsing in his forehead. If looks could kill, Robin wouldn’t just be dead—his headstone would be cracked down the middle.

“I’m sorry,” Robin said in a small voice.

“So you should be,” Claypath said. Having reached the summit of his anger, he was making his way down the other side. “We have two suspects in this case, and you have managed to chase them both away. You’re lucky I haven’t arrested you for obstructing police business.”

“With all due respect, you wouldn’t have a second suspect if it wasn’t for me.”