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Sinclair raises an eyebrow. “The logs show your keycard was used to enter the room. They also show your keycard was used to access room 207 on August the twelfth and room 203 on August the fourteenth. The guests in each room reported items missing shortly afterwards.”

The walls seem to press in slightly. I’ve been in here enough times to know how these interviews go, but unlike the younger version of me—cocky, defiant, not giving a shit—I care about the outcome this time.

“I’m telling you, it wasn’t me,” I insist. “Someone must have taken my keycard, or⁠—”

“Are you suggesting,” Muir cuts in, “that someone took your keycard, used it, returned it without you noticing, then took it again for the second theft, returned it again, and then took it a third time?”

I can hear how daft that sounds. Can almost see my younger self sitting here, spinning wild tales to explain away whatever trouble I’d landed in. The difference is, this time I’m telling the truth.

“No, that’s ridiculous, obviously. More likely they cloned my card somehow, or tampered with the logs to make it look like it was me.”

The silence in the room is heavy, thick with doubt, and I know they both think I’m talking shite.

“Let’s move on,” Sinclair says, sliding a photograph across the table. “Do you recognise this?”

It’s a signet ring. Gold with a crest on it. The same one that fell out of my locker. The same one I begged Johnny to claim he found elsewhere. But I can’t tell these two that.

“No,” I say. “Never seen it before.”

“Never?” Sinclair probes. “You’re certain about that?”

“That’s what I said.”

“So you’ve never held this ring in your hand? Never touched it?”

Something cold slides down my spine. I suspect this is a trap, but what am I supposed to do? Change my story? Oh aye, because that’s famously something innocent people do.

“No,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction now.

Sinclair exchanges a glance with Muir. “That’s interesting, because we found your fingerprints on this ring, Robbie.”

Fuck.

Of course they did. When it fell from my locker, I picked it up. Held it in my bare hand before I gave it to Johnny.

“I don’t—” I begin, but my throat dries up. I rub my palms against my jeans under the table.

“Your fingerprints are still on file from your previous convictions,” Sinclair explains. “The match is conclusive.”

A dull ache starts behind my eyes. “It’s not what you think. Okay, I did touch that ring, but I found it in my locker. Someone planted it there.”

“And who would that be?” Muir asks.

“Samantha Drummond. The head of housekeeping.”

“That’s quite an accusation.” Sinclair leans back. “Do you have any evidence to support it?”

And there’s the rub. There’s Cat’s photos of the overdue bills, but explaining how we got those would mean admitting she and David broke into Samantha’s office. And anyway, those only prove that Samantha’s been having money troubles, not that she stole anything.

Still, I try to sound confident. “She’s recently divorced and struggling financially. She’s been spending beyond her means. And she’s had it in for me for years.”

“That’s motive, perhaps,” Sinclair acknowledges, “but not evidence. Nothing that explains how your keycard was used or how the ring ended up in your locker. And what did you do with the ring after you found it in your locker?”

“I handed it over,” I say carefully.

“To who?”

I hesitate, knowing I’m walking into dangerous territory. But I’ve already lied about the ring once. I can’t lie again. So I say, “To Johnny.”