“I just need ten minutes to talk to you.” There was a pause, then the flat, obtrusive beep that let me know he’d let me in. I knew he’d cave—these men cared so little about their actions towards the women they hurt, but so much about what people who knew about those actions might think of them. I held a thumbs-up aloft to Lola, who was sitting on a doorstep a few buildings down with the bottle of champagne. He opened his front door. “Nina, hi, come on in,” he drawled in a demonstratively unbothered way, exposing his nerves. I scanned his flat, which was filled with the essential props of a
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