The man, I don’t recognize. I’m sure of that. He is standing with his back to the balcony parapet, so that I can only see his profile, but it’s no one I know. He’s handsome, in an obvious kind of way, and there is something a little patronizing about his expression, like he’s enjoying talking down to this young woman in front of him, enjoying her homage. He lifts his glass to his lips and drains his drink, and then says something to the woman.

The woman shakes her head. She makes as if to move away, but the man puts his arm up on the wall over her head, blocking her in. She is hemmed in by his body on one side, and the wall of the house on the other. My heart begins beating faster for her. I know what is happening. I have been this woman. I know her panic. I know how much she will want to escape.

And then, very deliberately, he puts his hand on her breast.

I am screaming at her internally to kick his shins, knee him in the balls, get away.

But I have realized with a sinking feeling that I know this woman. And I know what she is about to do.

She squirms to one side trying to get out from under his grasp, but he blocks her, putting his other hand there to prevent her escape, and now he leans in, too close for me to see what he’s doing, though I can imagine, I can imagine all too well. My heart is racing now, sickeningly fast. Why isn’t the person holding the phone going to help?

The shove, when it comes, is no surprise to me, even though there is an audible gasp from the person filming, and from a few of the viewers in the dining room.

On screen, the man staggers back, against the low barrier of the balcony, winded. And then the next few seconds unfold so fast I can hardly make out what happens.

The woman steps towards him, and for a second I think she is about to help him up. But she doesn’t. She pushes him again. And this time his legs go up, his glass slips from his hand, his arms windmill—and he is gone.

It’s only when the woman turns to walk away that we see her face.

It’s completely calm.

It is, of course, Liz.

ERIN

Snoop ID: LITTLEMY

Listening to: Offline

Snoopscribers: 160

There is complete silence around the table as Topher closes his laptop and puts it away. Carl is the first to speak.

“What the fuck did we just watch?”

“I think…” It’s Miranda, speaking very slowly, her face drained of color. “I think… we just watched Liz murder someone.”

“It’s why Eva was killed,” Topher says, and his voice is gravelly. “It must be, surely? Liz must have known she knew.”

“But—that makes no sense,” Miranda says, bewildered. “Why kill Eva when she knew she had footage?”

“I’m guessing she didn’t know about the footage,” Topher says. He looks indescribably weary, his face graven with the lines of a man ten years older than his actual age.

“She didn’t,” I say. My words drop into their silence like stones into a well, and they all turn to look at me, astonished.

“You knew about this?” Miranda says, and, very reluctantly, I nod.

“Yes, I knew. Liz confessed to me before—” I stop, I can’t bring myself to say what happened, even though I’ve already been through it with the police: the endless night, the pills in the kettle, that nightmarish chase in the darkness, the horror of her lonely death. “Before I ran,” I end, lamely.

“She fucking killed a man in cold blood,” Carl says, and his voice is blank with shock.

“He assaulted her,” Miranda says stiffly, but I don’t listen to the argument that ensues. I am too busy trying to figure out something else.

Who was filming? And why?

There is only one explanation—it must have been Eva. She was the only other person there that night, by Liz’s account. And she had the footage. She must have been the person hiding inside the flat, filming through the closed window. It’s the only explanation that makes sense, and it ties in with Liz’s account of the timings, Eva making an excuse to leave and go to the bathroom, right before it happened.

But… I am putting two and two together as the argument rages around me, Miranda’s shrill voice rising over Carl’s booming tones. Why would Eva be filming? Unless she knew, or at least had a very good idea, that Liz was going to be assaulted.

And then I remember Liz’s words to me, repeating Eva. Besides, Norland likes her type. He likes them young.

Did… did Eva send Liz in there, knowing Norland would likely make a pass, knowing Liz would fight him off and then… what?

The pieces click into place, with a horrible finality.

Then Eva would have video of a man, a potential investor, sexually assaulting her employee.

She would have him where she wanted him.

Eva is a blackmailer—I knew that already. But somehow, this cruel, calculated setup is infinitely worse than anything I had imagined.

She sent Liz in there like a lamb to the slaughter. What she didn’t know was that Liz was no lamb.

It’s like Liz said, everyone at Snoop underestimated her.

Well, that was a mistake. And Eva’s mistake killed her. And it killed Norland too. And now it’s killed Liz.

“She knew.” I say it quietly, and at first they don’t hear me, and the argument carries on over my head, but then Tiger says, “What did you say, Erin?”

“She knew.” When I repeat it, the others fall quiet, so that my words drop into the sudden silence like little bombs.

“Who? Liz?”

“Eva. She knew that guy would probably go for Liz. That’s why she was filming. She told you, Rik, do you remember? Norland likes her type. He likes them young.”

Rik says nothing, but the expression on his face says more than any speech. He remembers. He remembers perfectly. And he understands. Still, I spell it out for the others.

“She dressed Liz up, and she took her up to his flat, knowing that Norland would quite likely make a pass at her and Liz would panic. And she would have it all on film.”

“Fuuuck.” It’s Carl who speaks, and his face is ashen. “She told me once, when I asked her how she got so good at persuading investors. She said everyone has a button, you just have to find it, and then you press it as hard as you can, even if they squeal.”

“That film was supposed to be her button,” I say. “Only it didn’t turn out how she planned.”

“And all this time,” Tiger says slowly. “All this time she was holding it over Liz’s head. What do we do?”

“What can we do?” It’s Topher. He stands up, runs his hands through his hair. “Fuck, this is horrible—that fucking file. And it’s not just Liz. She had stuff on all sorts of people. It’s like a fucking time bomb.”

“Does Arnaud know?” Rik asks. Topher shakes his head.

“No, I haven’t told him what the folder contained. If this gets out, it’ll end Snoop. What do we do? A company built on blackmailing investors? We might have survived Eva’s death, even the revelations about Liz. But if this gets out, we could all be going down.” He looks across the table at Rik. “I mean literally going down. Like, you and me could be looking at prison time. How do we prove we didn’t know about this?”