He needed a name. Forced his mind back through the colleagues he’d had over the years, trying to think of one who might be willing to go out on a limb, do a bit of investigative journalism off the payroll. Or, failing that, someone who still considered him a friend. It was like staring at an anagram and seeing the same word, over and over again. Unable to push past it. His mind was stuck on one answer, which wasn’t the one he sought. His thumb hovered over his screen, typed then deleted the first letter of her name. Shit’s sake. He should have deleted her number. She was bound to have deleted his. This kind of indecision was not how Eva operated. She was better than this.

She’d been furious, when she stormed into his office that first time. She’d been furious and he’d been complacent, sitting in his fancy corner office with the big windows that now belonged to someone else. Her scorn had hit deeper than he’d ever admitted, though there were times, later, when he’d used the word ashamed and she had looked at him in surprise.

‘I never had the power to make you feel ashamed,’ she’d said once. But that was exactly the power that she’d had. Still would have, probably. No, he couldn’t call her. There had to be someone else.

Twelve years ago the site had wanted to cover all points of view, and so he’d set out to interview the almost-famous Avigail Goldsmith. It was no kind of coup at all – she’d been approaching them with offers of articles for months, and had already been featured a few times on the website. Her quotes willingly supplied and quoted. It had seemed too easy, that was the problem – that was what told him he needed to find something more. It wasn’t that he had strong opinions either way. If pressed, he would have suggested choice was the way forward. Give people options, give them choice, and make sure the choice is available to everyone. The middle ground didn’t generate much traffic though, and he was in the business of attracting readers.

Avigail had invited him to her house. Not the office – to her house. She was rich, old-money rich, that much he’d known before he arrived.

‘Ah, Piotr,’ she said, her pronunciation perfect. ‘Just like that funny character in War and Peace?’

He stood his ground and stared at her.

‘We have a rare edition in our library – we have all kinds of things in our library. You can use it if you want.’

Her eyes sparkled at him as she spoke, like a laugh she was trying not to let out, and Piotr wondered if he’d just been insulted. It didn’t make him feel inclined to go easy on her in the article.