Last time I lay blindfolded in a Chancery Hotel room waiting for King Edward to arrive, I told myself that if he strangled or abducted me, there would be a small silver lining: Melissa would have to tell everybody, when they said, “But surely you know something about what Nicki might have been up to, since she’s your best friend,” that she’d forbidden me to tell her my secrets. She’d have been forced to admit—to the police, to herself—that her moral prissiness might have cost me my life.

The way your recklessness cost Damon Blundy his?

I wonder what Adam, Sophie and Ethan are doing now. Adam’s probably preparing dinner. Sophie might be on the Internet, Googling singing or talent competitions, planning her quickest route to becoming someone like Una Healey from the Saturdays. Ethan’s patiently explaining to Adam why he has to be allowed to move tables at school, because Nikhil never stops talking about how much he loves Jessica, and it’s boring. Or else he’ll be playing on Minecraft. I don’t know what that is, only that it obsesses my son. Yesterday, he said to me in a tone of great excitement, “Mummy, there are more than three hundred chickens guarding my world!”

I wish I were at home with my family. I was wrong to think that Bartholomew Gardens and Spilling could never be home. This room, this hotel, contains all the “not home” that exists in the world. If I get out of here alive, I’m never coming back.

I hear a creaking noise coming from nearby. My body stiffens. Is it him?

I lie still. One by one, the seconds stretch out and then contract, my imagination racing to the end of each one and back again.

“Don’t move,” says a man’s voice. “Say nothing. Don’t touch the blindfold. Keep your hands where they are, by your sides.” There’s a thwack as the door closes.

I’ve never heard the voice before. Nobody I know from my real life. Thank God. Though I never allowed myself to fear the worst, I’m relieved to know for sure.

I’m pleased to have heard King Edward’s voice, finally. When he and I met here in February, we’d made a pact of silence. He didn’t utter a word.

I keep completely still. I’m willing to stay silent for the time being because I want to listen. What’s he doing? I can hear movement. Some kind of tape, a cutting sound, whimpering . . .

Was that a woman? Has he brought a woman with him?

Tape. Damon Blundy had a knife taped to his face. His wrists and ankles were taped together, around his chair . . .