Robin’s heart skipped a beat, although somewhere he had known that the man in front of him could not have been anyone else. His face looked familiar—he had the same bulky jaw as his son, and he shared his daughter’s nose. Even without having met the Claypath twins, it was apparent they could not have come from anyone else, like they were artists’ impressions of the man in front of him.

Robin shook his hand. “I’m Robin...” Was it an accident that Claypath was here?

“Ah, no need to introduce yourself,” Claypath said, still managing to boom even though he’d lowered his voice. “You are Robin Ferringham. My wife’s book club read your book a few months back.”

“Ah,” Robin said, uncomfortably. Even in such a vast airy room, he felt vulnerable. “Did they enjoy it?”

“Haven’t the foggiest. I leave her to that kind of stuff.” Claypath laughed. His eyes twitched—flitting up and down Robin in a motion that was almost imperceptible. “I’m more into the macho stuff, you see—the Chris Ryans, the Tom Clancys. Something to get your pulse racing. But then, these days, the job does that for me.”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you going to say you’re sorry?” Claypath said, bluntly, and not at all friendly. His demeanor changed in an instant.

“What?” Robin felt very small.

“My children disappear, killed by a perverse maniac who once was a friend, you stand before me trying to see this monster, and you don’t at least tell me that you are sorry for my loss?”

Robin opened his mouth to say sorry like a quivering subject, but instead he straightened up and said, “In my experience, a sorry from a stranger is probably the most insulting thing to hear after losing a loved one.”

Claypath considered this for a long moment, and the ghost of a sad smile played on his lips. “What it is, hmm?”

“Pardon?”

Then Claypath did smile a joyless smile. “What it is to find someone who understands.” Claypath leaned in close and whispered, “You know, sometimes when some idiot comes up to me and says sorry, I just want to wring their bloody necks, choke them until I feel the life ebbing from them, just so they can feel what I feel.” He considered what he said and leaned back again. His smile was genuine this time. He turned and beckoned to Robin to follow him. “You can see Matthew McConnell on two conditions—the first being that there will be guards directly outside the door. This boy is dangerous, and he is manipulative. There will also be guards watching the room on the closed-circuit cameras. Anything happens, you must alert the guards. I cannot stress that enough.” He led Robin to the waiting area, and a guard appeared from down a long and comparatively dark corridor as if on cue. “Stanton.”

The guard jumped slightly and looked at Claypath. “Sir.”