“Who was it? On the phone,” Amber said, thrusting the barrel of the thing at her. She wasn’t exactly holding the gun like she knew how to use it. She wondered where the barmaid had got it—it looked like an old revolver, probably took standard bullets. Probably plucked from the Deep Web. “Was it Ferringham?”

“I don’t think I have to answer that.”

“Just answer the question. Can’t you see I have a gun?”

She smiled. “Pretty hard to miss, Polly. But you’re holding it like they do in the movies, not like real life. You need to move your bottom two fingers, otherwise they might get broken when that bastard recoils. Did you even check the safety’s off? This is all presuming that you are actually intending to fire it, of course.”

“Shut up,” Amber shouted, but looked uncertainly at the gun in her hand. She didn’t have a clue. “He wants to see you. I have to take you to him.”

“Why don’t you just put down the gun? And I promise, I’ll come voluntarily.”

“I know who you are,” Amber said, far from putting down the gun. “I know who you really are.”

“Well, you could have just asked,” she said, waving her hands. “Not like I’m trying to hide it. I mean, God, there’s been plenty of hints.” She looked in her periphery. There was a spanner on the desk by her—wouldn’t do much—but next to it, yes, next to it was a hammer. That would do nicely. She took a minute step toward it—a few more and she’d be able to make a grab for it. Amber would hesitate at pulling the trigger, weighing up the ramifications of what she was about to do. But she eventually would pull it, because she wouldn’t be able to deal with what would happen if she didn’t pull it.

Amber didn’t seem to notice the move. “You’re going to have to come with me now, ‘Sally.’” She said it all twee-like, like she was a character in some kids’ show. She was most definitely not.

“Where are we going?” Another. Little. Step. “Who is ‘he’?”

“What does it matter to you?” Amber said, brandishing the gun.

She smiled. Another step. “Just want to know if I should pack a picnic.”

Amber didn’t smile. But her eyes alighted on something. She had seen. Damn it—she had seen the hammer. “Back up. Don’t you dare move for that hammer. I will shoot you.”

She waved her hands airily. “You’re not going to shoot me, Polly Pocket. Now, why don’t we...?”

Amber shot her.

She looked down to see blood blossoming on her stomach through her white tank top.

“I really didn’t want to do that,” Amber said plainly, her demeanor changing as easily as putting on a hat. “You’re such a stubborn bitch.”