Chapter Thirteen

Callum didn’t sleep the night after the marina, not properly — he lay in the dark turning Brannigan’s sentences over and over, testing them against each other for the small inconsistencies that a practised liar usually left somewhere in the seams if you had the patience to keep pulling at the fabric long enough — and by six in the morning he had given up on sleep altogether and was sitting at his kitchen table with the eleven notebooks spread in front of him again, though he could not, by that point, have said with any confidence whether he was actually reading them or simply using their presence to keep his hands occupied while his mind did its work elsewhere.