Richard called at eight o'clock on Saturday evening.
Kendrick was at the bookshop.
They'd closed an hour earlier — or Damian had closed, the official closing, the turning of the sign and the locking of the door — and neither of them had left. Damian was behind the counter doing something with the weekend ordering that he did every Saturday evening, and Kendrick was in the armchair near the poetry section with the book he'd taken and returned and taken again open in his lap, not reading it.
The press coverage from Friday had continued through Saturday. The credible version and the aggressive version running in parallel, each feeding the other's momentum. Daniel had sent updates every three hours with the particular measured calm of someone who was monitoring a situation without the ability to change its direction.
*Three more outlets have picked it up. Characterization remains divided. No new photographs. Institutional partner inquiries holding at four.*
