Amber stepped forward. “Okay, enough stalling. Time for the main event, buddy.” She brought the gun up, holding it at Robin’s head. “You ready to drown Ms. Morgan here? Or whatever she’s called.”

Sally grunted. Robin couldn’t believe she was still conscious. “You’ll have to come and get me, bitch.” But Sally didn’t move—she couldn’t. She was bleeding from a gunshot wound in her stomach, after all. And she had lost a lot of blood. Even in the bad light, Robin could tell she was a sickly pale color. All that and Sally was still trying to fight back, even if it was just with words.

And then Sally surprised him and the two captors in equal measure. She must have used the last of her strength to lurch forward. She connected with Amber’s torso, head-butting her. Amber was propelled backward. The gun flew out of her hand and clattered somewhere off down the tunnel.

Robin took this as his only chance—for Sally’s sake, if not for his own. He felt angry, murderous, and Tim had paused in front of him, wide-eyed and off guard. As Amber and Sally collapsed in a heap, Robin pushed himself off the wall and charged into Tim. He collided with him, sending himself and the young man tumbling into the back of the tunnel.

They kept going, Tim being pushed and Robin doing the pushing.

Robin expected to hit the opposite wall, but instead they both went sailing even farther, colliding with metal railings. The railing gave way and Robin realized his mistake too late. They had been next to a cut-through and Robin had sent them into the canal tunnel.

Robin and Tim went plunging headfirst into the ice-cold water of Standedge.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

During...

The service station near Sherwood Forest was full of truckers and families on road trips. Everyone was rushing around. No one gave a toss about the man with the beard and the low cap sitting drinking a latte. Even when the hot brunette sat with him, he barely got a glance.

“There’s someone poking around,” Amber said, giving him the box of supplies. “His name is Robin Ferringham.”

Tim shook his head. “Who’s that?”

“He’s a writer. He wrote this book.”

She pulled a copy of Without Her from under the table. Tim looked at it—looked at the pictures on the cover. It was unmistakable.

“Her.”

“He’s the husband. Don’t worry—he’s running around like a headless chicken at the moment.”

Tim’s eyes widened and looked at her. “How?”

“Don’t know,” she said. “Still trying to find out. But you’re going to have to start to consider that you might have someone in your cottage talking.”

“A traitor?”

She nodded. “Who else knows? No one.”

“Okay,” Tim said, “I’ll deal with it. But in the meantime, have you had any luck finding the evidence?”