Page 64 of The Psychopath Next Door

She flashed back to the immediate aftermath of the incident: Rose standing at the top of the staircase, Fiona several steps below – and, down in the darkness of the cellar, a dark shape on the concrete.

Fiona had crept down the steps, instructing Rose to stay where she was. She needed to make sure it was his neck breaking that she’d heard. He might be merely winded, still holding the gun. He might sit up when she reached the bottom of the steps and pull the trigger.

But all was well. He lay on his front, arms outstretched, his head bent at an unnatural angle. The small gun – it looked like something from an old Agatha Christie adaptation – was on thefloor several feet away from his hand. Fiona looked down at it. It was a simple story: the octogenarian gets home from the pub, booze in his bloodstream, ventures into the cellar and trips over his own feet, falling to his death. Fragile bones breaking. Nothing to stop his fall. It fitted her plan perfectly.

The only issue was the gun. What possible reason could there be for him carrying that? It pointed to there being someone else in the house. An intruder. Patrick feeling threatened.

She needed to put it back where Patrick kept it.

Fiona jogged back up the cellar steps, ducking to avoid the cobwebs and being careful not to slip herself. Rose was still rooted to the spot, staring down into the darkness.

‘Is he dead?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘I killed him.’

‘You did.’

She wanted to ask Rose how she felt, what physical sensations were coursing through her. What emotions. Was she scared of being caught or punished?

Was there any part of her that felt bad?

There was no time for any of that now, though. They needed to get out of here.

She found the place where Patrick kept his gun: a cupboard next to his bed, the door hanging open to reveal a space where there were boxes of ammunition. Had he suspected she would come for him one day, or did he have other enemies? Perhaps he was simply serious about home security.

She went back down to the cellar and used the sleeves of her jacket to pick the gun up, taking it upstairs and returning it to its home. In the kitchen she found several cans of Guinness in the fridge. Still using her jacket sleeve to touch any surface that might hold prints, she emptied a can into a glass, then tipped most ofit down the sink, leaving the foam-streaked glass on the counter. She emptied a few other cans and put them in the bin. After that, she went round with a cloth and wiped any other surface she had touched, although she had been careful since getting here, so it wasn’t a big job. Rose’s fingerprints and DNA wouldn’t be in any databases, but Fiona still looked around to ensure they hadn’t left anything the naked eye could see: no long strands of hair or items dropped from pockets.

All this took fifteen minutes, and then they exited through the front door, on to the empty lane and back to the train station.

‘The painting,’ Rose said suddenly as they walked through the village. ‘That was a lie, wasn’t it?’

‘It was. But he took something else from me.’

‘What?’

‘Not what.Who.’ She stopped, and put her hands on Rose’s shoulders. ‘I promise I will explain everything. Okay? And thank you. You saved me.’

Rose nodded, clearly still stunned by what she had done. But – and this was the best part, the part that made Fiona realise she had been right all along – Rose wasn’t freaking out. She wasn’t babbling with fear or regret. She wasn’t showing any signs of regret at all.

She seemed excited.

Just like when Fiona had allowed Sienna to drown. Rose finally knew who, and what, she was.

Lola wanted to stop every ten seconds to sniff for traces of other dogs. Passing the spot where Albie had smashed his head against the tree trunk, Lola pulled at her lead and Fiona wondered if the animal could scent blood or brains. Somewhere inside that fluffyhead was the mind of a wolf. Lola’s ancestors had run wild across this land, hunting in packs.

‘Do you feel it?’ Fiona said to the dog. ‘Do you feel that connection?’

Lola squatted and peed.

It was another warm day and alcohol seeped from Fiona’s pores, her armpits prickled, and nausea burbled inside her. She was gripped by an urge to rip off her clothes, to peel them all off, fling her bra and pants into the stinging nettles, and go running free and wild across the fields, screaming. Letting it all out. She pictured herself doing it, got deep into the fantasy, and when she emerged she didn’t know how long she’d been in a fugue state; was afraid, for a second, that she might have actually done it, which wouldn’t have been at all wise. But she was still dressed, still on the path, and Lola was snuffling obliviously in a bramble bush.

It wasn’t surprising the pressure was getting to her. A lot had happened this week. Almost as soon as she’d got home from Patrick’s there had been the encounter with Ethan – another part of her plan that was going exactly as she’d hoped, except the timing was slightly off. That was why she’d encouraged him not to confront Emma straight away. She wasn’t quite ready yet for Ethan to step forward into her embrace. She had to ensure Rose was fully primed first.

Ready to play her role in the final part of Fiona’s plan.

Rose.

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