Claypath did the unthinkable—he laughed and turned his nose up. “McConnell ran that car off the road—if that isn’t an admission of guilt then what is? And the Monster?—you didn’t exactly serve him up to us on a platter, did you? You’ve done far more harm than good. And if McConnell really killed my children like I think he did, like he seems to be confirming through his actions, then your direct involvement has let a killer go free.”

“You are the ones who let him go,” Robin said.

“YOU GAVE US NO CHOICE!” Claypath shouted, a vein popping in his forehead. “I tried to warn you but you didn’t listen. And your bullheadedness has now cost my children justice. Their killer is out there, running, and now we have to try to catch him. And that will always be on you. That will always be on the shoulders of Robin Ferringham, and I swear to God, I will have everyone know that fact.”

“I wanted to find out what happened. To your children. And the others.”

“Did we ask for your help? I don’t recall calling you to inquire about your opinion. You are nothing, Ferringham. And you never will be again. I have had enough of you. Marsden has had enough of you. Huddersfield has had enough of you. Get the hell out of my county. Go home. And never come back. And if you don’t, you may start to find Marsden can be a very dangerous place to be.” Claypath got up, his anger presented to Robin in a clearly laid out threat. “I don’t suppose we’ll be meeting again,” he said.

Robin opened his mouth to say something—an apology, a plea, just something—but the door shut.

Claypath was gone.

Chapter Forty

A uniformed officer dropped Robin back at his car. She didn’t offer her name, and Robin didn’t ask. When they got to the scene, Robin saw that there had been police tape placed around the edge of the highway. Police cars were lining the hard shoulder and the officer dropped Robin off, then added her car to the line.

Robin paused at his vehicle. Traffic had slowed down on the road—everyone slowing down to see what was going on. As he looked across the barrier, he saw a van parked—a man with a beefy-looking camera pointed at the scene.

Robin started toward the scene himself and then thought better of it. What else could he possibly do here?

He got in the car and, with one look in the side mirror, took off to Marsden. He didn’t look when he returned down the other side of the road.

Roger Claypath was right.

He had done enough.