Shut the pain away. And then the anger was back. He put the phone back to his ear. “Where the hell did you hear that?” That wasn’t even in the book; he’d omitted it purposefully. He’d wanted something to keep for himself.

“That’s what she said. She said you wouldn’t believe me. So she said to say those words, exactly. Clatteridges, 18th August 1996—7:30 p.m.”

Robin couldn’t think. He had boxed his hope up and put it to the back of the cupboard of his mind. Hope was the worst emotion that people in his position, the ones left behind, could ever feel. And now this Matthew was rifling through the cupboard trying to find it.

He closed his eyes, and breathed in and out slowly, trying to gain some perspective. This could all be explained away—a coincidence or something like that. That’s all. Because it couldn’t...

“She rang me,” Matthew said, his voice steadier now as though he were stating facts. “In the dead of night. A few years back. I didn’t know who she was or why she was calling me or anything. I couldn’t even understand her at first. Thought she was either drunk or on some kind of drugs. She seemed flustered, confused. But as she talked, she started to make some sense. She told me her name. Then she said yours. She said ‘Robin Ferringham is the greatest man I’ve ever known.’ The only man to trust. And she said that Robin Ferringham would never let anyone down.”

This isn’t real. It’s a trick. Just a stupid trick.

“I didn’t remember the call for ages—I think I might have even convinced myself it was a dream. And then I get put in this place, and you’re given nothing but time to think. And I remembered. I remembered her. And I remembered you.”

A call in the middle of the night. Years ago. Clatteridges. Was it possible—really? “I don’t believe you,” Robin whispered harshly, although a more accurate sentence would have been I can’t believe you.

“Can’t you just ask her?” Matthew said.

Robin’s breath hitched. “Samantha has been missing for three years.”

Silence on the other end. And then a small “What? No. No. That’s not... Please, Mr. Ferringham. You have to...” The call began to break up.

Robin looked at the phone. He had one bar of signal. He muttered an expletive under his breath and heard a slight tut. He looked up, suddenly remembering where he was. The same old woman who had been looking at the crime shelf was standing over him with a copy of Without Her clutched in her hands. It looked rather ragged and well read, clearly her own copy. The woman went to open her mouth but Robin put the phone back to his ear.