‘That was more difficult than I expected,’ he said. ‘But we got there in the end.’

I stared at him, and he smiled back at me, satisfied.

‘Pierce is dead,’ I said.

He glanced back towards his private fan of screens, as if referring to an open document or a video feed. The smile tilted into a rueful expression.

‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ he said. ‘Not the worst career move. He’ll trend. Terrific numbers. Tragedy and mystery do well together. People like to speculate. He’d have been pleased.’

‘The police will investigate,’ I said. I was only just starting to think it through for myself, and fear building in my gut. ‘They’ll link me to him, I’ll be blamed. Or those guys in the park, they’ll get the blame. They didn’t do anything, not really.’

Quin shrugged, he actually shrugged, and I quaked with restraint, halting short of launching myself over the desk at him.

‘The knife came from Pierce’s pocket, he had brought it with him. His will be the only prints on it. You don’t have a record, do you.’

The last line wasn’t a question – he knew. So I didn’t answer.

‘The police will interpret the business as a freak accident, or a suicide. A man overcome by his demons, returning to the scene of a terrible event from his past, searching for meaning – and, I suppose, finding it. It’s a good story. The investigators will probably be satisfied with it. The loose ends don’t matter, they rarely do. Pierce understood that. He wrote a book about it.’

‘Bullshit,’ I said with vehemence. ‘He’s dead. Don’t you dare try to make that into some satisfying narrative arc. He’s fucking dead. He didn’t find meaning, or get overcome by demons, or any of that crap. He was just … fucked up, he was a fucked-up person and there was a stupid accident, not even a fight, and … he’s dead.’

Quin closed his eyes and gave a single nod. ‘Yes. An entirely reasonable interpretation of events. But not the one that the reporters and obituarists and biographers will choose. As you know. Why don’t you sit down?’

‘Fuck you, Quin.’

Another nod. ‘Fine. You earned that. Please do sit down, though.’

I did not. But I could not be still. My frame shook with undirected energy and tension. Sweat scored a line down my back and stickied my palms. I clenched and unclenched my fists.

‘What do you want to do?’ Quin said, looking at my hands as they worked. ‘Do you want to hurt me? You don’t of course. That would be stupid. Or do you want answers?’

‘I can listen standing up.’