Chapter Twenty
Sam looks up at the office building of Windsor, Forbes to question him; present him with everything she knows, even though she has no legal power to act on anything he may say?
For the most part, it’s self-indulgence.
Sam wants her showdown. Her Scooby-Doo moment, where she alone unmasks the killer.
Denver’s readers want it too, she supposes.
A trope of the genre that she derives too much satisfaction from herself to subvert.
“You want a real story?” Sam asks. He nods.
“Why not do an exposé on the number of criminals and suspected criminals changing their names and becoming untraceable? Now that’s something that’s really scary.
Anyone can assume a new identity and our software is so archaic that no one ever knows.
Nothing is monitored because the systems don’t talk to each other.
Everyone assumes that a name-change is a big deal, and that the police know about it.
We don’t. No one does. Pedophiles, rapists—anyone can change their name and then vanish.
HOLMES knows nothing about it. Politicians talk about closing the legal loophole, but it’s never happened.
Even if that comes into force, it’ll only stop known offenders—those already convicted. ”
The journalist thinks for a second and then says, “Nah. I think the Guardian already covered that story,” he says, then adds, “Who’s Holmes, anyway?”
“HOLMES2. Didn’t you read How to Get Away with Murder? Denver talks about HOLMES in detail.”
“I tend to skim-read,” he says.
“You can’t skim-read books like How to Get Away with Murder,” Sam admonishes. “Endings make no sense that way, and we’re almost there.”
He sighs. “If I read too deeply, I start feeling like I’m just another character on someone else’s page and the other people around me are just characters, too.
Some days, I feel like I’m not even an important character.
That I’ve been cheaply thrown into a scene, probably at the last moment, because the author forgot to convey significant information earlier on.
Or needs me to challenge some convention or hint at something a hundred pages in the distance… ”
He’s still talking as Sam walks away, deciding that the young man has really missed the point—he’s tantalized by the villain and hasn’t been paying attention to the bigger picture.
Sam is surprised to feel the lift descend as she pushes the button for the third floor.
When it pings open, she feels that the strange YouTuber might have a point, because nothing in front of her seems real or right.
Gone are the gleaming white tiles, the fake jasmine scent and Bach.
Here is motion-activated strip-lighting and grotty carpets that don’t quite meet the skirting board.
Sam doesn’t step out. Instead, she pushes the button again for the third floor.
Beam me up, she thinks, but the doors just bounce in place.