And then Robin realized what he was doing. Amber had got into his head, as easily as that. Was Tim under her spell too? “You’re insane.” He grabbed Tim and pulled him out of the water, next to him.

“What are you doing?” Amber said, exasperated. Like no one had ever defied her before. “He killed your wife.”

Robin nodded. “And I’m going to put him in prison. I’m not a killer. Nobody dies today.”

Amber smiled. “I appreciate the sentiment, Robin. We’ve all grown as people, learned from each other, completed our arcs, but here’s the rub.” She held up her left hand. She was clutching a knife. “Somebody always has to die.” Amber advanced toward him.

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out. Robin and Amber looked at each other, sharing the same confused look. And then Amber staggered. She looked down to see a blood plume spreading from the wound in her chest. She collapsed.

Behind her, Sally stood holding the gun. “I really bloody hate canals.”

Chapter Seventy-Three

The tunnel had him again, just like it did that day. But this time, he was walking toward the light, walking toward the exit. At least he thought he was, hoped he was. They had been walking for hours, days, months, years. It felt like that, anyway. And the tunnel kept going. On and on and on. Exhaustion lapped at him, just like the water had. He felt as though he were freezing to death, his limbs numb. He wouldn’t have known they were there, if his right arm wasn’t supporting Sally and his left wasn’t dragging an unconscious Tim Claypath. And his legs were moving, almost of their own accord, trying to get out, trying to save them.

They had left Amber where she lay. She was dead. Her story was over.

Sally had stopped talking and her eyes were closed, but she still had strength in her legs to carry her, so he supposed that she was still with him. Among the living.

It was hard to believe that it was over. But then, it wasn’t exactly. There were still things to sort out, sort through. And he silently cried to himself at the prospect.

Sam was buried under the basement of The Hamlet. He’d been right there. She’d been right under his feet. God. He needed to retrieve the body. He needed people to get it and then he needed to bury her properly. He needed it to be done. He needed it to be over. What Amber said had been true—he had been scared, scared to even consider the prospect of it being finished. Her story. But now he was ready. He was finally ready to let her go.