Rage swam through me, through my belly, through my bones, and I wished I could charge, knock him over, get in the car, and floor it as I reversed, but he stood stock-still, stoic, daring me to challenge him.

‘Let me just get Dusty all settled,’ I said weakly.

McKnight crossed his arms. ‘I’ll wait.’

I grabbed Dusty’s crate and my tote, then returned to the cottage, dropping the tote on the coffee table and letting Dusty out. He ran around happily, as if being offered some sort of reprieve. I looked out the window to where McKnight still stood, waiting, like a statue. Quickly, I opened the junk drawer, grabbed a roll of duct tape, knelt beside the doggie door.

This had to be routine, I told myself as I ripped off swaths of tape, made an X so Dusty couldn’t get out again. I hadn’t killed John, and I had no reason – no motive – to want to. With Sam Alby in the picture, there was no way I was a legitimate suspect. I would go with McKnight, do his damn interview, then come back, grab Dusty, and get the hell out of here. The whole thing shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours. Vera would see me going, but I would make her understand. Maybe we could even reconnect, once I was safe somewhere. Maybe we could still be family – she and I – only, a long-distance family now.

The tote caught my eye. Could I risk it? I decided I couldn’t. I stole into the bedroom, pushed the bed aside, and loaded the items back into my hiding spot, hammering the board down tighter than ever.

Then I locked the door behind me, got in the car, and followed McKnight down the road.

The station was just as dead as it had been before, but the woman at the front desk seemed to recognize me as I walked in behind McKnight, breathing deep, as furious as I was scared. Every path seemed to lead to more skeletons, more dangers, when all I wanted was to finally feel safe. I pictured Dusty, alone in that cottage, while Davis lurked somewhere nearby, close enough to hurt us.

In the interview room, McKnight didn’t offer me coffee, only cued up the camera, took the seat opposite me, and leaned back. ‘Do you have anything additional to tell me, Miss King?’

‘About what?’ I asked, trying not to snap.

He rested his hands calmly against the cheap plastic table. ‘About anything. Ms Abernathy. Mr Nolan. The art studio.’

In a flash, a lightbulb went off, something that could possibly help him, something I’d forgotten to mention before because I’d been so defensive about my lies; something to show that I was on the right side of this. ‘The cabin,’ I said. ‘I mean John’s art studio. Where he was found?’

McKnight’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Yes?’