I come to. I must have blacked out for a moment.

If I’m going to die, I don’t want to miss the last part of my life. I’d rather die with my mind working.

Think. Not Sophie and Ethan. Too hard, too painful. Think about anything else.

Craving and Aversion—that was Tasker’s book. I gave it up. Too frightening. Damon hated it. He got into a fight about it with Keiran Holland and I decided I’d read it. I was on Damon’s side—I was always on his side against anyone, and especially against that stupid windbag Holland—but I wanted to be able to write something intelligent in the comments about why Damon was right.

Gave up. Couldn’t write anything.

I make a noise that means “Take the tape off my mouth,” moving my face to show what I mean.

“No. Not until I’m ready. Keep still.” He sounds sad, not angry. Sad, holding scissors.

What can I do? There has to be a way out. Nicki Clements, super fibber, can talk her way out of anything. I try to remember what else I know about Tasker, in case there’s something I can use. All I can dredge up, from something I read online, is that his father was a professional gambler who ran off with a singer. No help at all.

I used to do my best to keep up with Damon’s various obsessions, Googling all the people he ranted about. It was exhausting: infant male circumcision, athletes banned for taking drugs, pretentious novelists, hypocritical MPs.

I didn’t pay much attention to Tasker. Damon wasn’t interested in him in his own right. He’d only written about him to illustrate a point he wanted to make about Bryn Gilligan. Oh, but wait . . .

“Keep still, Nicki.”

I can’t. Can’t stop shaking.

I’ve remembered something else. The woman, the singer Tasker’s father eloped with—she was accused of murdering a young boy, before they caught the actual . . .

Oh my God. The boy, the murdered little boy.

His name was Gavin. Was that why King Edward chose that name? It never occurred to me to make the connection.

Of course it didn’t. You had no reason to think about Gavin in connection with Reuben Tasker.

“What’s the matter?” He knows I’ve thought of something. Wants to know what it is.

I move my face again from side to side, chin in the air. Let me talk, you fucker.

He puts the scissors down next to him on the bed and tears off the strip of tape. I cry out in pain.

“Sorry,” he says. “Nicki, the last thing I want to do is hurt you. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“My wife, Jane. You said you wanted to know who killed Damon Blundy. She killed him.”

His wife. His wife murdered Damon Blundy? Impossible.