She flicked on the kitchen light, her heart heavy as she took in Sherlock’s untouched bowl of food. Tomorrow, she would make up some posters and put them around town. Pressing her hand against the back door, she double-checked that it was locked. The hairs prickled on the back of her neck. Her house was beginning to remind her of Blackhall in the early days. She was spooked by every shadow. Dreading going to bed. She should be relieved that they were progressing Christian’s arrest but while she appreciated Richie’s updates on the case, she couldn’t reconcile the letters as having come from Christian. Her colleagues didn’t have the full picture. Tomorrow she would bite the bullet and tell her DI about the letter on her laptop.

Sleep came quicker than Sarah had expected, her dreams haunted by a cloaked figure in black. She was back in Blackhall, running to Robin’s room in a desperate attempt to save him. But his door-knob turned into a candle and melted away in her hand. As the cloaked figure approached, she was enveloped by a sense of knowing. That was when she caught a glimpse of his face. Gasping for breath, Sarah sat bolt upright in bed. Bathed in sweat, she untangled her feet from the sheets. It was just a dream, wasn’t it? It couldn’t possibly be true. But her hammering heart felt real enough. She peered around the room, searching every corner for a shadow. Had he been here? Switching off her light, she checked the time: 3.33 a.m. Rubbing her eyes, she shook off the nightmare. Was this how Elliott felt? Her dream had been so lucid. She’d heard the thud of heavy footsteps, felt the Midnight Man’s breath on her neck. But it was the sense of recognition that bothered her the most. It felt stronger than any dream. The person behind the hood was someone she knew well. It compounded her instinct that they were hunting the wrong man. She looked at the clock again, remembering that 3.33 was when the Midnight Game was meant to end. She swung her feet out of bed and pulled on her dressing gown.