Page 33 of The Serial Killer's Sister
‘It is tomorrow,’ he says. ‘But sure.’ Then he looks her up and down. ‘Anna – you don’t look so hot either. Has something happened?’
‘Later, Dean. I promise.’
Anna slips into the dorm and closes the door. She rests her head against it and listens to Dean’s retreating footsteps. Then she thinks she hears another set running along outside. She turns to tell Kirsty that she fears Henry heard everything, but in the dim glow offered by the outside security light shining through the thin curtain, all she sees is a lump underneath the blankets. With feather-light steps, Anna goes to her own bed and climbs in, fully clothed, exhaustion making her limbs heavy. What a terrible party that turned out to be.
For the moment, the shock of the event numbs Anna and although her skin crawls with the echo of the boys’ hands on her, her main thought as she nestles in her bed is Henry. She wishes her brother was more like Kirsty’s – but of course, hehadbeen once. They’d been close, always there for each other. Whose fault was it that it had changed?
Hers. She was the one who’d made things different between them. She’d put her friendship before him; she’d neglected her little brother in favour of making her own life easier.
Maybe there was a way to level with Henry. Explainhow she’d had to put her friends first. He needed to understand that it wasn’t because she loved him any less. She’d try and talk with him tomorrow. It was time to put things right.
Chapter 21
The glass dish cracks under the force with which I throw my keys into it. The line snakes from top to bottom like a branch of lightning.Another broken thing. I stare at it and think about how it resembles my life – a hairline fracture that will worsen with additional pressure. I wonder how far I am from breaking.
Making coffee on autopilot is something I do most mornings, but usually once I’ve started sipping it I’m fully awake – and everything I do is with awareness and purpose. Looking down at my hands now, though, as I feel the heat spread to my palms, I have no memory of making this one. Sitting on the sofa, my feet up on the table, I laugh. And I don’t stop. Can’t. It’s as though hysteria has overtaken and even the release of tears, huge drops cascading down my cheeks, doesn’t quell the building frenzy of emotion that Craig Beaumont has unleashed.
I reach forward to pull a tissue from the box on thetable, and I’m reminded of Tuesday morning when Detective Inspector Walker was sitting opposite me and gave me the devastating news. If only he hadn’t traced me. I could’ve continued in ignorant bliss, getting on with my carefully built life. But while that might’ve saved me from this nightmare in the short term, Henry would have found me eventually. If I know one thing about Henry, it’s that he doesn’t give up easily.
My eyes are drawn to the words of the riddle. The next location. My adrenaline was pumping when I solved it earlier and I had the urge to leave the house immediately – but Craig put paid to that, and now the adrenaline has been replaced with apprehension. My palms are clammy with sweat. Dark images of Finley Hall, our dorm, the bridge by the lake … the party and its aftermath … all swarm my mind. All but one of the bad things that happened then, and those happening right now, have a common denominator. Henry. Whatever he has in store for me, the result is bound to include more humiliation, public exposure, punishment. The next killing date is looming, and I’m meant to be working all this out to save a woman from being murdered.
I tried to convince DI Walker – and myself – that I wasn’t the intended victim. That Henry was merely playing a game with me, that this was allforme, to gain my attention like before. The twisting, gnawing pain that’s been inside me since this started, though, suggests otherwise; I really can’t be sure if it’s me or another woman who is next. I leap up from the sofa, snatch the riddle from the table and leave the house. I have no choice. I have to carry on playing the game.
As I drive over Shaldon Bridge, my phone rings. The display reads ‘DI Walker’. I decline the call. I won’t be able to lie to him convincingly – he’ll hear it in my voice and know I’m doing it again: going off alone to solve the riddle. I check my wing mirror to see if I recognise any of the cars behind me. He managed to follow me last time; he’s probably got eyes on me now, too. I know that whatever I find I’m going to have to hand it over to the police anyway, but I want to see it first alone.
I hope to God it’s not too late for me to try and protect myself from the fallout. If Henry’s agenda includes breaking the final promise we made to each other, he’s planning to tell the world my secret. Perhaps getting to the next location first won’t prevent that, but I have to try. In the long run Henry might not care about being exposed, given he’s apparently committed multiple murders in order to reach his ultimate goal, but for me, the risk is immeasurable.
I’m the one with everything to lose.
I turn the radio up, singing the Sugababes’ ‘Freak Like Me’ at the top of my voice in a desperate attempt to drown out the other voice inside my head – the one telling me my life is about to unravel. As the song ends, the radio presenter informs me that the news will follow. After the dozen or so adverts I check the time – ten o’clock. It feels more like afternoon; the morning has dragged. I’m approaching Penn Inn, about to go across the flyover when the ringtone of my phone drowns out the newsreader.DI Walkershows on the display again and my pulse judders. Dare I reject another call from the detective?
With a groan, I tap ‘accept’ and roll my shoulders, then press my back into the seat, my eyes trained dead ahead. ‘Hello.’
‘Did I catch you at a bad time?’ DI Walker says. I’m about to say something idiotic like I’ve just got out of the shower, but a speeding ambulance zips past in the next lane, its siren blaring. Damn.
‘Not particularly,’ I say.
‘Where are you going, Anna?’ His deep voice is edged with more than just concern; the warning tone makes me shiver.
‘Needed to clear my head.’Withholding information isn’t lying.‘The headteacher at Seabrook just extended my suspension period. I’m all over the place, DI Walker.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Did the digital forensic team—’
‘No.’ His abruptness is jarring. I can hear other voices in the background as well as the crackle of a radio. He’s with the team of detectives; I bet they’re listening in. ‘I’m afraid whoever hacked into the feed covered their tracks well, as suspected.’
Although I hadn’t expected anything else, disappointment zaps my strength. A horn blasts as I swerve into the overtaking lane, narrowly missing the bumper of the car in front as I correct the steering wheel. I hadn’t noticed it slowing down.
‘Fuck,’ I mutter, flinging a hand up in apology. I hopethatdoesn’t find its way onto social media, too. No hacking the CCTV required this time – one of these vehicles is bound to have a dashcam.
‘What was that? Are you okay?’ Finally, I hear concern in DI Walker’s voice.
‘Yeah, but I have to go. Must focus on the road.’
‘Can you please tell me where you’re going? I know you must’ve figured the riddle out; I’m not an idiot.’
I wonder if, during the time he’s had me on the phone, he’s traced me – pinpointed my location, or at least managed to gain a radius. He could even have a tracking device on my car. Why hadn’t I thought of that before? That’s probably why I didn’t see him following me yesterday and why he doesn’t need to now. He already knows he can easily find me, so he doesn’t need to be directly behind me. I’m tempted to pull over, check my car for a small, magnetic box or something. But in all honesty, I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’ll know if he’s attached one soon enough – if he finds me in the next half hour or so.
