The detective hadn’t answered honestly, earlier. Had lied by omission, which, given his line of work, is often more dire than simple deception.
When asked what the Met had learned of the killer in the last year, the easy answer—lifted directly from the profiling report—had rolled off Vince’s tongue with all the forethought of a papercut.
The terrible addendum remained buried behind his molars: their killer knew far, far more about Vince than Vince knew about them.
He does, actually, end up swinging by the front desk to ask the staff for cough drops. The lad manning the desk hands him a quick handful of waxy-papered lozenges and wishes him a good rest of the day, eyes already back on the mobile he’s got tucked in his lap.
Vince snorts, popping a lozenge into his mouth as he turns.
He n
