The One Who Got Away
L.A. DETWILER

One More Chapter

an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers

The News Building

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www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © L.A. Detwiler 2020

Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

L.A. Detwiler asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008324667

Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008324650

Version: 2020-01-31

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

To my grandfather, Paul J. Frederick

‘I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity’

– Edgar Allan Poe

Prologue

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex, UK

Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

2019

Clutching the chilled silver edges of the picture frame, my shaking hands rattle the loose glass shards that rest on the photograph. The peeling wallpaper of my room is marked with a mystic yet clear warning. I smooth my thumb over the ridges of the familiar texture on the frame, looking down at the unassuming, smiling faces in the photograph. They had no idea that years later, they’d be pawns in this sick and twisted game. How could they, after all?

Claire brought me the photograph only a couple of days ago to replace the last one. Has it really only been a couple of days? So much has changed. I can’t even keep track of the days, the hours, the minutes. Tears splash onto the glass shards, swirling in small, delicate puddles over our faces. I can feel my heart constricting, tightening, and I wonder if this is where it all ends.

‘Charles, what is this? What is this?’ I whisper into the room, my breathing laboured as the glow from my lamp dances over the message on the faded, sickly wallpaper. I shake my head, trying to work out what to do. I could push the call button over and over until one of them comes. I could wait for a nurse to get here. They would have to believe this, wouldn’t they? They would have to see that I’m not mad, that this is real. They wouldn’t be able to feed me lines about my warped perceptions of reality or this disease that is degrading my mind.

They’d have to see it.

Then again, who knows anymore. No one seems to believe me at all. Sometimes I don’t even know if I can believe myself. I stand from my bed, setting the crushed picture frame down and leaning heavily on the tiny wooden bedside table. I pull my hand back, looking down to see blood dripping from where a piece of glass has sliced into me. The burning sensation as the redness cascades down my flesh makes my stomach churn.

What’s happening to me?

I need to solve this, but I know I’m running out of precious time. He’s made it clear through the message on the wallpaper that this is all coming to a devastating conclusion – and soon. I don’t know when this story will end or exactly how. But this tower is ready to topple, crashing down and obliterating me in the process. I can’t let that happen without uncovering the truth. I can’t leave this place as the raving lunatic they all think I am. I have to stay strong and sort this out. Charles would want me to uncover this debauchery. They all need me to work this out, even if they don’t realise it.

And most of all, I need to die satisfied that all has been set right, that injustices have been paid for. I can’t leave this world with all the murky questions swirling in my mind, and with all the old guilts rattling about. Someone needs to pay for the sins of the past – and I don’t think it should just be me.

I take a step towards the wall, my bones aching with the effort. I am careful not to slip, a few loose shards and specks of blood dancing on the floor in intoxicating patterns. I focus my gaze back on the words that taunt me.

I lean my forehead against the wall, not caring that the oozing liquid will be in my hair, on my face. I inhale the rusty scent of the dripping note in the corner of the room.

You’re mine.

It trickles down, the blood an oddly blackish hue on the tired wallpaper of Room 316. I lift a trembling hand to the phrase, my finger hesitantly touching the ‘Y’. Its tackiness makes me shudder. It’s real. I’m not imagining it. I’m certain that it’s all real. Taking a step back again, I slink down onto my bed, my cut hand throbbing with pain as I apply pressure to it. My fingers automatically pick at the fluff balls on the scratchy blanket. I should probably push the call button. I should get help, get bandaged. I can’t force myself to move, though. I tremble and cry, leaning back against my bed.

I don’t understand. There’s so much I don’t understand.

I rock myself gently, my back quietly thudding against the headboard. I think about all the horrors I’ve endured here and about how no one believes me. Like so many others, I’m stuck in an unfamiliar place without an escape. Unlike Alice, my wonderland is a nightmarish hell, a swirling phantasm of both mysticism and reality – and there are no friendly faces left at all to help me find my way home.

The babbling resident down the hall warned me. She did. On my first night here, she told me I wouldn’t make it out alive. Now, her words are settling in with a certainty that chills my core. True, it wasn’t the most revolutionary prophecy. No one comes to a nursing home expecting to get out alive, not really. Most of us realise that this place is a one-way ticket, a final stop. It’s why they are so depressing, after all. It’s why our children, our grandchildren, our friends are all suddenly busy when the prospect of visiting comes up in conversation. No one wants to come to this death chamber. No one wants to look reality in the face; the harsh, sickening reality of ageing, of decaying, of fading away.

Still, staring at the warning scrawled in blood on my wall, I know that maybe the woman down the hall meant something very different with her words. I’m going to die here, but not in the peaceful way most people imagine. I’m going to pay first. I’m going to suffer.

But why me? And why now, after so many years have passed since those horrific incidents of my past?

I don’t know who to trust anymore. I don’t know if I can trust myself. My mind is troubled, and my bones are weary. Maybe the nurses are right. It’s all nothing more than this disease gnawing away at me.

But as I look one more time at the blood trickling on the wall, I shake my head. No. I’m not that far gone. I may be old, frail, and incapable of surviving on my own, but I haven’t gone mad yet. I know what’s real and what’s not. And I’m certain this is demonically, insidiously real. Someone here wants to make me pay. Someone here has made it their mission to torment me, to toy with me. Someone here at the Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home wants to kill me. In fact, someone here has killed already.

My hands still shaking, I appreciate the truth no one else can see – it’s just a matter of time until they do it again.

I lie back on the bed, the pieces of glass and the blood cradling me. Maybe, in truth, I resign myself to the fact that I’m helpless, that I’m at a mysterious Mad Hatter’s mercy in this ghoulish game of roulette. I stare at the ceiling, the hairline crack beckoning my eyes to follow it. I lie for a long time, wondering what will happen next, debating what new torture awaits, and trying to predict what the final checkmate will be in this sickly game.

After all, no one gets out of here alive. Even the walls know that.

Chapter 1

Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

2019: One month earlier

The first thing I notice as I’m led into Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home is that the creeping ivy vines strangle the windows. Up, up, up, the vines twist and turn, suffocating the glass panes, choking out any hope of the sun shining into the unsettling, old building. They are a prominent scar on the stone front of the building, marking it as forgotten and dilapidated. It’s a violent disparity with the clean, modern look in the pamphlets they gave to us months ago.

‘Charming, isn’t it?’ Claire beams as she squeezes my arm too tightly, leading me through the creaking front door of the majestic yet decaying building. As I cross the threshold into the draughty building, reality settles in.

There’s no turning back. I live here now. People will walk by on their way to work or to restaurants or the shops, oblivious to me. They won’t think about me or the others here as they try to shield themselves from the stone presence that is a blatant reminder of their own fate. I’ll be the one no one’s thinking about, abandoned in a place called home but feeling like nothing of the sort. The familiar, terrifying twinge in my chest aches, and I clutch at my heart. I squeeze my eyes shut, pausing inside the building as I gasp for air. It hurts to breathe, and the panic doesn’t help. As my heart constricts, the familiar fear usurps me – this time, it will be too much to take. This time, the throbbing won’t stop, and it will all end here, right now.

‘Mum, are you all right?’ Claire asks, patting my shoulder with a concern a mother should express for her child, not the other way around. The order of things is so warped during the ageing process. It takes a moment for me to respond. I try to catch my breath, leaning on the wall, my fingers resting on the scratchy, chilled stone. It’s happening again. Why does this always happen?

After a long moment where I wonder if my lungs are going to keep working, the feeling passes. I open my eyes to look at my daughter, her face contorted with fear. This is why I’m here. This is what put me here, I know. I probably do need to be here, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

I take another deep breath, nodding at my daughter in assurance. She stares for a moment, probably deciding what to do. But I’m here now, and this is the best place for me – or so everyone says. Thus, she leads me forward, and we methodically trudge further and further into the cave that is Smith Creek Manor. Claire bubbles on about how lovely the statue is inside the door and how bright and airy the entrance is. I nod silently, knowing why she’s raving about architectural features. She wants this to work out. No – correction – she needs this to work out. As a fifty-two-year-old divorcee, she’s got more pressing matters to worry about than her daft old mother who is incapable of living on her own. She needs to get back to her job, the life she’s created for herself here in Crawley. She wants me to be happy here to quell her rising guilt. I understand. I don’t blame her. But it doesn’t mean I find Smith Creek Manor charming or likeable or anything of the sort. I don’t want to be here, even if my thudding chest and exhausted mind tell me I probably need to be.

It’s true, I’m being unfair. Any place but 14 Quail Avenue would be a disappointment to me right now. I miss my familiar house in Harlow. I miss Charles. I miss my marriage, my life and the place I called home for so long. This isn’t home. Crawley hasn’t been home for decades, not for me at least. I suppose in many ways, even all those years ago when I lived here during my teenage years, it never was home. In fact, for many years, it was a dark stain in my life, a reminder of all that can go wrong in the world. And for so many years, I’ve thought all of this was in my past – buried deep, deep in the past.

I know it’s pointless to get nostalgic or angry. It’s all done. It’s over now. The for sale sign in front of our house in Harlow was changed to sold. My few belongings were packed, the finances and paperwork were taken care of. I’m here. There’s no turning back.

It pains me to think about 14 Quail Avenue having new tenants. I hate the thought of some new couple dancing underneath the kitchen arch where Charles used to kiss me on the cheek before leaving for work. I loathe the thought of some frilly woman redoing the wallpaper that I loved so much in the sitting room or modernising the charming fireplace that Charles built by hand. Pain throbs in my chest at the thought of the new couple’s children or grandchildren playing with toy cars and dolls in the spot of the sitting room where my dear Charles fell over, dead, one year ago. I hate them. I hate this place. I hate it all.

‘Ms Evans, welcome. So lovely to see you. Welcome to Smith Creek Manor. What a lovely choice for your new home,’ a woman in shiny way-too-high heels offers. She shakes Claire’s hand before rubbing my shoulder. Thus, the patronising gestures begin. I shrug it off. I know I’m just sensitive today.

‘Now, let me show you to your residence. You’re so lucky, a third-floor room. You’ve got one of the best views here,’ the chipper woman announces as her bone-coloured shoes clack on the floor, her feet landing close together with each step as her hips sway with confidence. She acts as if she’s on a fashion runway instead of in a cold, damp corridor in a home for the dying that reeks of medicine and hospital. She leads us down the corridor and through a doorway that has a code on it. Above the code box is a bright coloured painting. It’s as if they’re trying to disguise the fact that this is only one step above incarceration.

Claire and the lady – has she told me her name? I’ve forgotten – chatter on about meal timetables and activities and all sorts of things, both trying to convince themselves that this is a perfectly acceptable arrangement and that I’m not coming here to die. Once inside the locked door, we wait for the lift to take me to my new view. I peruse the open area. The smell of this place matches the depressing sights. All around, people in various states of decay clutter the common room, some sitting stooped over in chairs, some sleeping. A few traipse about, dragging their feet on the carpet and muttering incoherently. Only a handful look conscious, reading a book or staring at a telly that looks like the first set Charles ever bought for our house.

The word death floats above these people, tainting the air with a musk of disintegration mixed with rubbing alcohol. That smell. How does one describe it? A sterile crispness infiltrated with what one would suppose melancholy smells like if it had a describable stench. It assaults my nose as the lift dings and the doors drag open, the fluorescent lights blinding me as I creep into the metal box. The doors screech closed, a grating noise that makes me anxious. I can’t help but feel like I’ve been enshrouded in my funeral clothes as the doors shut and we float up, up, up, the lift clunking and sputtering like a death trap. My heart pounds as I lean on the wall, my armpits getting profusely sweaty at the claustrophobic feeling. The lift grinds and creaks, and I may be imagining it, but it feels wobbly.

The ride seems to take forever, and, at a point, I wonder if it’s broken. When it slams to a stop, the doors take an interminable amount of time to creak open. Finally I see the bright lights of the corridor and I’m thankful, shoving my way out to escape the metal box of death. If I never have to get in the thing again, it would be too soon.

‘The lift’s just a bit slow. But I think it’s a good thing,’ the tour-guide woman announces as she and Claire follow me out.

I don’t understand how anything about the lift is a good thing. It’s just another reminder that this place isn’t anything like we thought it would be. My heart races as I consider the possibility of riding in that box again, the slowness of its heavenly ascent jarring.

My heartbeat steadies, and I take a few breaths. It wouldn’t do to let the lift ride get me worked up. After all, the doctor is always chattering incessantly about my heart troubles, palpitations, and stroke risks. He’s always trying to help us prepare for what to expect with the dementia as well. He reassures me with the promise of lucid days and moments amidst the days of confusion, as if that’s a true comfort to the soul to know that even though my mind is failing, there will be moments everything is clear.

Sometimes, I’m convinced he just likes to use medical jargon to sound important. Sometimes, though, I think maybe I’m actually falling apart, especially on days when the familiar pain resurfaces and I can’t catch my breath. Regardless, his warnings worked because eventually, it convinced Claire that living at home alone wasn’t suitable for me anymore. She’d ensured me that it would be safer for me to be in a residence like this, as she called it. My heart problems mixed with the early onset of dementia are a dangerous concoction, it would seem.

Claire’s busy, too. Her job in marketing keeps her floating around from place to place, which is perhaps how old what’s-his-name she was married to escaped with his flighty heart. With her travelling so often for work, it would be impossible for me to live with her – not that I’d want to impose on her life like that. Thus, she’d pleaded and begged for me to move somewhere more suitable and somewhere closer to her so she could spend time with me when she was home.

I hadn’t wanted to give up my home in Harlow, of course. True, most days the place felt like a mausoleum or a shrine dedicated to a life I could no longer live. There wasn’t much left for me on Quail Avenue except struggles and uncertainties. Getting around was exceedingly more difficult, and keeping up with the empty, chilled house was no longer easy. Then, of course, there were the incidents the neighbours were quick to report to Claire – like they’ve never forgotten anything before. Things were never the same on Quail Avenue since Charles passed, but at least there, I had memories and familiarity. I had some remnants of my dignity and privacy. I had a sense of home.

I’d fought Claire for months about moving out, insisting I could handle myself. In truth, I suppose I wasn’t afraid of going out in the same house Charles did. Perhaps a piece of me thought that if we were connected in our manner of death, it would be a good omen for the next life – something I try not to think too much about. However, months of Claire’s nagging coupled with a few scary moments on my own finally managed to free me of my devotion to living alone. Perhaps it was also the fact I was so tired. It had all become way too much.

Nonetheless, coming back to Crawley, well, that hadn’t been easy. The heart palpitations seemed to worsen at the idea, an old fear resurfacing at the thought of stepping onto this haunted ground. I found myself evaluating what I was doing. Why had I even considered coming?

Claire, of course. To be near my daughter. I was willing to risk anything, to face any fears, to make her happy – and maybe I felt the need to protect her.

I’d always hated that Claire had settled down here, an area where I had lived in my late teen years. It had been one of the darkest periods of my life, a time I would do well to forget. Sometimes life is full of surprises, and not always in a good way.

After Charles died and Claire, in the middle of starting her life over again after her marriage fell apart, announced her move to Crawley, I almost collapsed.

‘What do you mean, Crawley?’ I had asked, my heart fluttering.

‘I just need a change, Mum. I need somewhere peaceful that’s still easy to commute from. I’ve found a lovely little flat in Langley Green in Crawley.’

I felt as though my heart was lodged in my throat. I’d protected Claire from the past for so many years. Charles and I didn’t talk about it. We’d moved on from Crawley and never, ever looked back. But to hear my adult daughter talking about those places – it was too much.

‘I don’t understand,’ I murmured, trying to maintain my composure.

Claire sighed, turning the cup of tea in her hands across the table from me. ‘Mum, don’t get angry. I know you and Dad don’t like to talk about those years in Crawley. I know it was complicated. But a few weeks before Dad died, I don’t know, I just got curious. I’m in my fifties, and I don’t know that much about you two, in truth. I never knew my grandparents. I know you didn’t like to talk about them, but it’s like the both of you wiped away your past. It was a hidden secret hanging over us. I got curious. Dad told me about Langley Green and how much he loved it there. He told me about how you two met, about how he would travel to West Green to visit you. He told me how much he loved you from the beginning. I don’t know, I guess after he died, I just felt like it was a sign. Maybe that’s where I’m meant to be. It seems like a good place to start over.’

Vomit rose in my throat. I tried not to cry. How could you, Charles? After so many years, you planted this idea in her head? Searing anguish I thought had died decades ago had risen in my chest.

‘What else did he say?’ I asked tentatively. Fears rose. But there are things even Charles didn’t know. There were secrets even Charles couldn’t tell.

‘The same thing you two always said when I asked you. “It was complicated.” Mum, I know Crawley was a dark place in those years. But I don’t know, I think I could be happy there. I think it would be nice to be somewhere strange yet familiar in a weird way. You lived in West Green, close to where I’ll be. Dad lived there. My grandparents, whom I never got to meet, lived there.’

That conversation haunted me for weeks. I was angry at Charles. I was terrified for Claire as old fears surfaced. But eventually, I’d talked myself down.

Decades and decades had passed. It wasn’t the same place anymore. Heck, most of the people I once knew were probably long since gone, moved on in one way or another.

Still, I didn’t understand why Charles would open such wounds. After trying to escape from Crawley’s clutches for all of those years, to have my daughter reconnect me with it – it was the thing of nightmares, enough to drive me truly bonkers if I’d let it.

Yet, even after insisting to Claire I’d never go back, no matter how much she begged – here I am. Back in Crawley’s hands, back in West Green more specifically.

It was all so long ago, I remind myself. It doesn’t matter anymore. But I know that in truth, it always matters. It will always matter. I shudder at the thought, tension rising as I try to shove it back down.

As I follow the woman and Claire down the corridor, peeking in at the faces I will be seeing too much of from now on, I sigh. Now that I’m here, facing the prospect of a life staring at these sterile walls, I’m having regrets. Maybe I should’ve fought a little harder. Maybe this was a bad choice. This place rattles me, strangling me like the vines creeping up the stone walls outside.

Or perhaps I’m just being paranoid. Of course Smith Creek Manor wouldn’t feel like home yet. How could it? I just need to give it a chance. I’m tired from mulling it all over incessantly, my brain throbbing already. In a few days, I’ll adjust to the atmosphere, and it won’t seem so terrible. I just need time.

I peek in at the rooms of my neighbours as we parade down the corridor to my own. A man sits on the single chair in his room, staring at the telly. In another room on the right, a woman rocks what appears to be a baby doll, singing a lullaby. I pause at the opening to another living space, perusing the scene with fascination and horror. A woman stands, lopsided in the centre of her space, half of her face distorted. She is completely naked, and she walks in tiny circles by her bed, singing the words to some unrecognisable song. She laughs in between choruses, over and over, her sagging skin marked with burns and scars. I want to peel my eyes away, but I can’t. The storm that is this woman is on full display. How long has she been stuck in this merry-go-round of terror? Why isn’t anyone stopping her? It’s unbelievable that a human being would behave this way – or be allowed to behave this way in such a place. What is this? What is this, indeed. I peel my eyes away, feeling embarrassed for witnessing her in this state.

I continue on down the corridor, room after room presenting new views. It’s like I’m wandering about a zoo, staring in at the exhibits of various species. Some mad, some sane, some essentially gone. All of the doors are open, wide open, except one. When we get to Room 312, I notice that the door is closed. For some reason, it’s like the door calls to me. I think about reaching out and touching that knob, curious what the door could be hiding. Inside, I hear a cough, weighty and raspy. It startles me. I don’t know what or who is behind the door to 312, but there’s something unnerving about the space. A chill rattles my body and I shiver, a darkness surrounding the room even from the corridor.

But it’s also unsettling to see so many doors wide open, patients in all state of dress and activity out in the open. Is there no privacy here? Has everyone truly lost their sense of dignity that they’ll let everyone peer into their lives in their tiny little rooms? Will I lose mine as well? Will I even be me here? I shudder involuntarily as I plod towards the new ‘home’ that awaits me.

The woman in heels leads us down the corridor on the third floor, down, down to the very end. She stops at the room on the left, which is next to a staircase. There is, of course, a locked door at the staircase, the tiny code box beside it reminding me that I’m not free anymore. I suppose escaping isn’t something they look favourably on around here.

‘Here we are, dear. Room 316. Your new home. Welcome. I do hope we’ve managed to arrange the things your daughter sent over correctly. If not, we’ll be happy to help you set things up just as you wish. Come on, let’s get settled in and meet your roommate.’

I stop at the threshold of 316, staring in at what has become my whole world. My home with Charles was never a castle. It was a modest house, tiny to most. But compared to this space, it was a palace.

I step inside, willing myself not to cry. Claire is here, after all. I can’t break down. She needs me to be strong. I can’t be more of a burden than I have been already. I peer about the room that is more hospital than home, and my stomach plummets. This is it. This is where I’ll reside for the rest of my days, the icy, bog-standard room surrounding me with its monotonous bleakness. I shake my head at the prospect, my hand reaching up to tug at my long, stringy hair.

‘Ms Evans, I’d like to introduce you to your roommate, Ms Rose Wright. All right, Rose?’ The woman prances over to the other side of the conjoined room, a curtain that presumably divides our halves pulled to one side so I have a full view of my new companion. I hate that I have a roommate here. Certainly, Claire told me I’d have my own room, didn’t she? Most facilities do, after all, offer individual rooms. Why is this place different? I shudder at the realisation that already, my new home isn’t meeting my expectations.

I glance over to the woman on the other side of the dividing curtain, trying to move beyond the fact that I won’t be alone. She is sitting up in bed, leant against a pillow, her mouth partially open. Drool drips visibly down her chin, and she’s wearing a transparent blue nightshirt. She stares, deadpan, straight ahead at what, I can’t determine. Her breathing is raspy, every single inhalation rattling something in her chest. On her bedside table, a statue of what seems to be a religious figure perches. I can’t tell exactly what it’s supposed to be. It’s chipped and warped. Its demeanour is more ghoulish than holy. Angled, it appears to watch her, its unseemly eyes bulging out. I don’t like it. I wonder if she hates it too.

Behind the statue is a noticeboard, just like I have on my side of the room. A child’s drawing of what appears to be a rose is pinned there, centred on the board. At least I will be able to recall her name, I realise. Rose, just like the picture. I lock it into my mind. Wouldn’t do to forget my roommate’s name, after all.

Our fearless tour guide and master of ceremonies plods forward, walking to Rose’s side to stroke her thin, dishevelled hair. The woman doesn’t move. I blink, turning to Claire. I don’t know why, but I recoil at the sight of this Rose woman, more dead than alive, who fights for every breath. Her delicateness irks me, stirring an uneasiness I can’t explain. It makes me feel guilty for thinking these things about a suffering woman. Nonetheless, the woman doesn’t offer any reaction to my presence. Our tour guide looks back to us, smiling gently.

‘Rose won’t be much of a bother to you, I suppose,’ she reassures, and although the words sound harsh, her eyes are kind. I nod slightly, offering a smile to the woman who isn’t even looking at me. I trudge over to the window, needing to get some air in this stifling room. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to counter the rising panic in my chest. I can sense the tour-guide woman and Claire exchanging some kind of look or communication behind me. The woman is probably trying to soothe the rising guilt in Claire for leaving me in a place that feels so suffocating. I look out into the morning, taking in the view of the courtyard, the U-shape of the building offering me a look at the inside-back wall of Smith Creek Manor. Another resident’s window sits across from me. I stare, the outline of a person – a man, perhaps? – standing in the window. Someone else is looking out into the courtyard as well. I should find it comforting, I suppose, that I’m not alone, that someone else is lost in thought at this place. My mind is numb, though. There are too many things to absorb, and I’m not ready to take it all in just yet.

‘Isn’t it a lovely view? I told you the view up here is just grand,’ the woman says. I hate that she’s trying to sell me on this place. I’m already here. Plus, there would be no selling me on this place. The view is claustrophobic, if you ask me. I can’t see the outside world, not really – just the grass, the air between the wings of Smith Creek Manor. It’s like I’m trapped by the stone building, the rooms of patients my only view.

I look out, training my eyes on the roof, on the sky, on the great beyond. I wonder if I’m staring in the direction of Quail Avenue. My mind conjures up an image of the tiny house squeezed between the neighbours. I can picture that alabaster colour, those tiny shutters Charles painted in a stunning yellow. I yearn to feel the front door, my hand shakily touching the cold, harsh glass of the window instead.

I peer down now, staring at the gazebo that rests in the courtyard way, way below. When my eyes catch sight of the ground, absolute terror seizes me, grappling with my heart like a clutching, clawing fist. What I see when I look out the window convinces me of one thing I’ve been fearing: I can’t do this. Not here. I’m not going to be safe here at all.

Missing West Green Girl Found; Corpse Shows Distressing Signs of Tampering

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

13 June 1959

The West Sussex Constabulary has reported the discovery of the body of Miss Elizabeth McKinley of Greenville Avenue, West Green, around dawn yesterday, 12 June 1959. The body of Miss McKinley was uncovered in a skip at the current construction site for the new Crawley Hospital. A worker found what appeared to be a large trunk in the skip that seemed out of place. Upon opening the trunk and discovering what appeared to be limbs, the police were called to the scene to investigate. Detectives later arrived, and a chief detective is currently on the case.

Several other trunks included the remains of what was determined to be Elizabeth McKinley after further investigation. Investigators also revealed the presence of bite marks on various limbs and pieces of the dismembered corpse. It seems that the bite marks were made postmortem.

The deceased, Elizabeth McKinley, 19, daughter of Mr and Mrs Jonathan McKinley, disappeared from her home 26 May. Mr and Mrs McKinley had left to attend a dinner in Brighton. Miss McKinley had stayed behind due to illness. Upon returning home, Mr and Mrs McKinley found signs of a break-in, although no valuables were removed. Miss McKinley had not been heard from since 26 May by any family or friends.

Searches have turned up few clues, the constabulary notes. West Green has been on edge since the disappearance of the girl that neighbours called ‘godly, sweet, and kind.’ Elizabeth McKinley was engaged to be married to Paul Hazenstab, also of West Green. Their wedding was to be announced in the coming weeks.

Police are calling the death ‘a brutal homicide of the darkest kind’, in reference to the disturbing bite marks found on her thigh, chest, and left arm. The dismemberment of her body has also raised concerns that this was an act of revenge or hostility. Several West Green residents interviewed mentioned fears that a deranged killer is on the loose, but Chief Constable Warren of the West Sussex Constabulary wishes to reassure the residents of Crawley that there is not enough evidence at this time to establish a motive or to stir such fears.

‘We will be investigating,’ Chief Constable Warren noted, ‘and we will not stop until we find the savage murderer who took this sweet girl’s life in such a sinister way. We ask the people of Crawley to be vigilant and to report any strange occurrences.’

Arrangements for the funeral of the deceased have not yet been announced as the investigation is still underway.

The pencil between my teeth, I gnaw and gnash, closing my eyes and thinking about how it all transpired. A surge of warmth flashes through me as I recall the supple flesh between my teeth. I recall how my tongue danced at its surface. The gnashing of my teeth against her flesh quenched, if only for a quick moment, the primal urge within me. The suppleness of her arm, her chest, her inner thigh – all so satisfying yet also stirring of a deeper hunger.

I’d known that first kill would be delectable – but I hadn’t realised just how so.

I sit back in my chair, my fingers finding the tip of the pencil as my teeth incessantly chomp down, almost as if of their own volition.

I’ve done it.

I’ve accomplished the first.

I’d always imagined the first to be the hardest when I’d gone over my plans. The logistics of it, sure. But also the feel of the life exiting a body. It had excited me, the mere thought of it driving me to a place of utter joy rarely known in all of my years of living. I’d worried, though, if it would meet my expectations. What if the taste of death wasn’t enough?

It was a fear I’ve always battled with, a question that often held me back. But there was no more holding me down. I’d finally risen up. I’d finally done what I’d always needed to do, what I’d always been capable of doing.

I’d found myself, my strength. A grin paints itself on my face. Brilliant. There is no other word for it. I’m finally brilliant.

Bloody brilliant.

I’ve done it, after all. I’ve finally achieved it. I carried it out, succeeded in the first step of the master plan. I finally feel a surge of life pulsing in my blood. It’s as if her death has incited a new energy, a new sense of life within me. It’s a foreign feeling, yet it’s one that I feel like I’ve always been craving. All of those years of being lost, of searching. I found it. It’s paradoxical yet it completely makes sense. I finally feel excited about something. Dazzled by the feel of death, I now know I can be the one to wield so much power. I can choose when and how they leave this world. And I get to be there in the final moments, to see them beg, to hear their desperate pleas for another day. My lips curve into a crooked grin.

I’m the one in control. Who would’ve ever expected it?

They wouldn’t have. It’s always the quietest sheep, the ones on the outskirts, that surprise you the most. Aren’t you surprised now? I think, my mind flashing over her stoic face. She would be so surprised now. My hand rubs my forehead, leaving the pencil.

I had been patient, my plan reviewed over and over for months before claiming the first one on the list. I’m no fool. I’m not. I’m sensible and smart. I’m capable. I’d taken my time after picking the girls. I have my list of chosen ones. I know the order, the plan. I won’t ruin it or rush it. I’ll be successful. I’m no quitter. I’ll do it right.

I’d been observant for months. It isn’t hard to learn about others if you just pay attention. Few people pay attention, I’ve come to realise. But I do. I always do. I watch. I study. I learn routines and entrances. I examine the possible entry routes and the escapes. I peruse timetables and plans to find just the right time. It has to be exact.

I’d determined Elizabeth would be first because she was the least exciting. She was a quiet, submissive girl. I knew she wouldn’t resist much. Which I knew wouldn’t be as satisfying – but it would be less risky.

Still, she wasn’t as gratifying as the final one will be. I know this already. I’ve thought ahead, you see. I’m saving the exciting one, the wily one, for last. Oh, yes, that last one will be a masterpiece of a kill. I’ll work hard and perfect my craft. I’ll master the rules of the game before I tackle the final one.

Patience is a virtue. That’s what I always learned. Patience. Patience. Patience.

She’s special, that last one. Even before I allowed myself to recognise the thirst in me and welcomed it to the top of my consciousness, I’d perhaps known it would be her. She’s always drawn me in. Why? I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s her spirit, that zestful way she walks and talks. Maybe it’s the fire in her eyes that reminds me of her. I don’t know. It’s hard to pinpoint. But when you know, you know, whether it’s love, lust, or some other form of the two. For three years, she’s drawn me in, a moth circling the flickering light but never getting close enough to get zapped.

Soon enough, she’ll be the moth, entangled and entranced by me. I’ll be the one wielding the light and then snatching her wings before she can get away. It’ll be me. All me.

I shake my head, taking the pencil from between my teeth and tossing it across the room. Dammit. I’m getting ahead of myself now. Bloody hell, it doesn’t do to get ahead. The plan is carefully laid. It’s why I spent so much time plotting it out. It needs to be perfect. One misstep, and that glorious, final moment of power won’t come.

I must be patient, stay calm. The task has started. I can’t lose my mind now. I’ve got to keep with it, to be careful. It won’t do to get caught now. It’ll ruin everything.

I tap my fingers on the edge of the table, calming my mind, lasering it in on Elizabeth. Recall the details. Think about it all. You need to perfect this. You need to master your craft. Do a good job.

Elizabeth. My mind trains itself on her, and I think back to the tale I’ve written, the ending to her story that began with my meticulous, godlike planning.

Once I’d learned of the dinner invitation, I knew my opportunity would arise. I’d overheard Elizabeth talking about the evening with some friends in the town centre, complaining about all the fuss her parents would make her go through when she’d rather just stay home and spend time with her fiancé. She made a plan to feign illness, and I knew my time had come.

The night of the dinner would be the perfect time to strike, I’d decided quickly. I knew how girls like her worked. I just had to be calm and collected. I had to be sure. I’d do some watching and waiting, just to ensure I was correct and that she didn’t back out of her plan. And then, once all was set, I had to make it fast. No luxuriating in the actual kill this time. The first would have to be efficient. This would not be a pleasure kill, not completely. I told myself I would not afford myself that bonus. It would be all about the craft, the tactic, the mastering of the art.

There would be time enough to feed my fancies and to bask in the excitement of it all.

Taking her life had been the easy part, much simpler than I’d once imagined. I am strong, and she was so weak. Females are all so, so delicate. It makes them beautiful, but so easy to kill. Moving her to another location to handle her body, to leave my mark – that had been more challenging. But I know all the alleys in town. I know the most inconspicuous routes. I know a lot about West Green that so many overlook.

And I’m also always up for a challenge.

I fold the newspaper article and tuck it into the wooden box underneath the unopened post. I close the box shut with a grin, wiping my hands on my stiff trousers. I’ve done it. And they have no clue it was me. The fools have no clue.

‘Deranged killer’. They think it’s the work of a ‘deranged killer’!

I laugh at the thought. They think they know. They think they have it all figured out. But they have no idea. They don’t know my master plan.

And I can’t wait to show it to them, one by beautiful one.

Chapter 2

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

13 June 1959

‘Adeline Walker, you aren’t going, so I don’t know why you bothered taking all that time to get ready,’ my mother spits. I gawk at her as she twirls the pearl earrings in her lobes. I think about how her red lips and eyeshadow are way too much, even for a woman like her. Hand on her hip, she stands at the other side of our dining room table, her eyes lasering into me as if she can cause me to spontaneously combust.

I stare vehemently back. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mum, I’m nineteen. You can’t keep me hostage forever, especially if you’re so damn worried about me being a spinster.’

‘Adeline Walker, you will not speak to me like that in my house.’

‘Then maybe I’ll scurry on out of Dad’s house,’ I spew back, putting the emphasis on Dad. She hates that I’m a daddy’s girl. I think it makes her jealous that he gives me more attention than her.

‘Enough. Now look. I know you have these lovely plans, but I’m sorry. With no updates from the police on Elizabeth’s killer, it’s not safe.’

I raise an eyebrow. ‘Weren’t you the one who swore up and down that moving to West Green would be just lovely when you pulled me out of school three years ago to come to this beastly town?’

‘That’s enough, Adeline. I hope someday you realise what you have here. Two parents who love you, a father with a good job. Honestly. What more could you want?’

‘To go on my date with Charles and have a little fun.’

‘Fun is what got you into trouble in the last town, if you recall. I won’t have you ruining your reputation again. It’s been three years, Adeline. Three years since we had to move away. You were lucky we could run away from it all last time. I won’t have you ruining yourself now.’

I roll my eyes, anger flaring at the mention of what happened. I was young. I was a little reckless, yes. But I was a girl who followed her heart.

‘You act like I murdered someone,’ I spew.

‘It could’ve been worse. If we’d stayed, you’d have actually ended up pregnant at sixteen. And then what?’

‘We’re not talking about this,’ I argue. I hate when she brings up the past. I shudder at her words, thinking about all that she doesn’t know. All that’s happened since we moved to West Green. All that’s happened in the past few months.

I return my focus to the conversation at hand. ‘Well, you should be chuffed then, Mother, that I’m getting serious. I’m nineteen, and I’m in a serious, steady relationship. After all, isn’t that what you want? You did mention that West Green could provide me with a “suitable man”, didn’t you?’

Mother rolls her eyes, sighing. ‘A factory worker isn’t exactly what I had in mind.’

I sneer at her blatant disdain towards Charles Evans, who hails from Langley Green and not money. This infuriates my mother to no end. When she meant we could find me a “suitable man” here in West Green, I believe she was hoping we’d find one from a wealthy family who was naive about my somewhat lacklustre background. A man like Oliver, whom mother still thinks I have a chance of reconciling with. If only she knew the truth.

Instead, to her dismay, I’d met Charles Evans at the train station in Northgate. I suppose at first she thought he was a phase, a rebound after Oliver. But three months later, I think she knows better. I think she sees what I’ve known since that first night – Charles is the one I love. And she couldn’t be more peeved at the thought of her daughter marrying a working-class man with no social standing. If I’m being honest, this only makes Charles even more appealing to me.

‘All the more reason for me to go out tonight. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?’ I ask, fiddling with my nails.

‘You could end up dead. Aren’t you a little bit afraid? Elizabeth lived a few streets over. I’m quite alarmed. The killer’s still out there. He’s probably just waiting for his next victim. I won’t have my only daughter be one of his tallies.’ She crosses her arms in a defiant, dramatic gesture. Of course, she would make Elizabeth’s murder about us. It always has to be about us.

‘Better to be murdered than courting some factory boy, huh?’ I ask defiantly, awaiting the tumultuous explosion that is certain to come.

‘Don’t be dim. You barely even know this bloke. With a girl dead in town – murdered –you can’t be too careful.’

‘Mum, are you really suggesting that Charles had something to do with Elizabeth?’ I shake my head, incredulous. This is ridiculous, even by Nora Walker standards.

‘I’m just saying you barely know him.’ She tosses her hands up as if she’s truly innocent.

I roll my eyes. ‘So because you deem him too poor for our standards, you toss murder accusations around? You’re off your trolley.’

‘And you’re making some bloody awful choices,’ she stabs back, her words harsh and angry.

‘I don’t care what you say. I’m going. Charles will be with me. We’re just going for a quick stroll, after all. We won’t be gone long. Besides, with all the roaming patrols around, the killer would be a fool to strike again. And I’m no Elizabeth, anyway. The girl always was a bit of a muggins, if you ask me.’

‘Adeline, how dare you speak of the dead that way. Where are your manners?’ Mum uncrosses her arms, leaning on the chair nearby. I avert my eyes to the ground. I always go too far. I always take it way too far.

‘Sorry, Mum. You’re right,’ I admit, sighing, fiddling with my hands. ‘It’s awful what happened. She didn’t deserve that, no matter what.’ My words are sombre, my guilt real.

Not that I’d ever admit it to my mother, but I do feel a bit anxious about the whole thing. It’s not every day you hear about someone from your town being murdered and chopped up, her body dumped in some skip like a discarded sandwich. I shiver at the thought, imagining Elizabeth’s sweet face, her long brown hair, as she was hacked into pieces and shoved in a trunk. What did she feel in those last moments? When did she know it was all over? Did she suffer? I take a deep breath, disturbed by the thought of it all. In my opinion, she was too goody two-shoes for her own good. But she didn’t deserve to die. Not like that.

I think about what Mum said. She’s probably right. The psycho is probably still out there, lurking in a corner, waiting for someone else to add to his tally. Elizabeth had no enemies. None. Everyone thought of her as sweeter than sweet, and there was no one who would want revenge. Plus, only a true psychopath would do that to a body. Bite marks? That’s bloody terrifying.

For a moment, I think that maybe I should stay home. Maybe I should tell Charles I can’t make it out. Then again, I miss him. I want to spend time with him away from mother’s scowl and her scrutinising gaze. You can’t live your life in fear, I suppose. Besides, with Charles Evans, I know I’m safe. He’ll protect me.

‘Does this mean you’re staying home?’ Mother asks, the I-win look painting itself on her face. Her ruby red lips widen as she prepares for my confession of defeat.

I raise my gaze to meet hers. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snap.

She groans. ‘Adeline Walker, honestly,’ she bellows, but I march to the front door to grab a light pullover from the hook.

‘Goodnight, Mum. Be sure to lock the door. Wouldn’t want you to go missing, would we?’ I tuck myself into the pullover, yank open the door, and offer her a little wave as she gapes at me.

And before Mum can chase after me, I dash out the door to wait for Charles. He is the escape from my house I desperately need.

***

‘Surprised your mother let you leave the house,’ Charles says a few minutes later when he finds me outside of a house just down the street, near the church. He slides to a stop on his bicycle, propping it against the wall after he dismounts.

I sit on the wall near the hedges, staring up at the sky, my feet kicking against the stones as I wait for him to come over to me. He helps me off the wall, wrapping his arms around me as he kisses me boldly on the lips. I giggle when he pulls away, happy to see him.

‘She’s probably got the whole town out looking for me by now,’ I say as I turn to look at him, his hand in mine as we walk on. His dark hair is slicked back and his steel-blue eyes shimmer in the sunlight.

‘Well, Addy, you can’t blame her, can you? It’s all the town’s been talking about since Elizabeth went missing. All the investigations, all the questions. Just has everyone on edge. And now with the body found and the bloody bastard on the loose, well, I understand why she’s worried, you know? You need to be careful.’

Charles wraps his arms around me, pulling me in for another kiss as we pause in the middle of the walkway. I like how his rough, manly hands wrap around my waist, how his lips feel on mine. I’m consumed by him, by us. He is nothing like Oliver Parsons, the mistake I dated before Charles. No, Charles is different, a working man, a strong man. A kind man. With him, I feel safe, even with a potential homicidal lunatic on the loose.

‘Usual route?’ he asks as we walk down the path, past the rows of houses and the few construction sites around. I shudder when we pass a skip, thinking about Elizabeth.

‘Absolutely,’ I reply, smiling as we walk under the blue sky towards our destination.

We stroll on, gallivanting towards the town centre, neighbours waving as they scatter about. Charles and I are a common sight these days, him calling on me whenever his relief from work at the factory allows it, to my mother’s true agitation.

Charles tells me about his workday as I listen, interested in the other side of his life I can’t begin to understand. Mum thinks it’s improper for a girl like me to work. After all, she reminds me, Dad’s job is good enough that neither of us need even dream of working. She thinks that’s fortunate. A part of me thinks that’s a shame. It would be interesting to get out of the house and to have somewhere to be.

When we reach the town centre, I glance around at the neighbours wandering around, caught up in their own activities. The shops are bustling with activity today. In our travels, though, we see several constables patrolling, reminding us that a lot has changed. I shove aside thoughts of Elizabeth once more as we take a seat on a bench outside of the post office, stopping to people watch and to catch up.

‘Addy, hello,’ a voice says, and I turn to see my best friend, Phyllis Barnes, skipping over. She waves, her mum by her side. Her mum offers a smile, but I notice she studies Charles with interest. Phyllis’ mother and mine are close friends, so I’m sure she’s heard quite a bit about how inappropriate of a match Charles is for me. I brush the thought aside.

‘What are you two doing?’ Phyllis asks, sliding over beside me as I budge up to make room. Charles nods at her politely.

‘Just escaping from the clutches of Mum,’ I reply honestly. Phyllis groans, knowing what my mum is really like. Phyllis knows a lot of things about me, things no one else does. I lean on her shoulder, happy to see her.

‘Lucky you. Wish I could find a bloke of my own. Charles, have any mates in the factory?’ she asks.

‘Got a few looking for someone to be sweet on. I’ll check with them. One commutes to work with me.’

‘You do know there are some jobs opening up in Manor Royal, don’t you?’ she asks. ‘Would be good if you’re thinking of settling down, you know?’ Phyllis winks at me, and I shake my head. She’s been obsessed with asking if Charles is going to propose. I assure her over and over we’re not at that stage yet, but secretly, I can’t help hoping, wondering where it will all go, if we’ll settle in Crawley. Although being close to my mother would be an annoyance at times, it would be enjoyable to perhaps see her discomfort at her precious daughter marrying a ‘commoner’ – although even with Dad’s advertising job, we’re far from the royalty she so believes. You’d think we’re descendants of the Queen herself.

‘So,’ I reply, trying to change the subject.

‘Terrible thing, that story about Elizabeth, huh? Such a sweet girl. Honestly. Who would do something so awful to her? I overheard my dad talking to Mum about it. Said the bite marks were deep and bloody and all over the girl. Even on her unmentionables. Disgraceful, isn’t it? Can you imagine? And to chop her up and put her in the skip like rubbish. I don’t even understand. It all just makes me ill,’ Phyllis says.

My stomach churns at the thought. Phyllis’ dad is one of the constables, so she gets all sorts of inside information. Today’s, though, sends a shiver through me. I find my eyes darting around, as if at any moment, the killer could jump out and strangle me. Suddenly, the town that once felt dull feels lethal.

‘They have any leads? Any motives?’ I prod, squeezing Charles’ hand for comfort. He squeezes it back, a gesture I’ve come to love in our few months together.

Phyllis shakes her head. ‘That’s the truly scary part. They’ve got nothing. Nothing at all. Whoever did it has covered his tracks well. I don’t know if anyone has any idea. But golly, isn’t it just terrifying? The killer out on the loose? Do you think he’ll strike again?’

I touch Phyllis’ hand, mostly to comfort myself. ‘I’m sure it will be okay. There’s no reason to believe it will happen again. Who knows, maybe Elizabeth was mixing in the wrong crowd, you know?’

Phyllis raises an eyebrow. ‘You know you don’t believe that.’

I sigh, admitting she’s right. There’s no one in the world let alone West Green who could believe that saintly girl – too saintly for my liking, sometimes – would have any enemies.

After some small talk about cheerier topics, Phyllis parts ways with us, heading off to catch up to her mother near the front of the market. Charles and I stay put, me leaning on his shoulder, taking in the sights of the town beside him. As always, I search for that disgusting face. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve encountered Oliver’s rage, mercifully, and he’s never been bold enough to harass me in public. For that, at least, I can be thankful. Still, it’s always in the back of my mind that someday, that all might change. It wouldn’t do at all to have him around Charles. It doesn’t do to have him lurking about me, either.

Eventually, we rise from the bench, and I stretch in the rays of the sun. Charles and I pass the hour hand in hand, walking and talking, kissing and revelling in each other. When he drops me off later, tipping his hat to Mum, she simply glares, not even extending a dinner invitation as would be proper. No matter. Charles kisses me on the cheek, promises to call on me again as soon as he can, and heads to the church to retrieve his bicycle and ride home.

Dad returns home well after dark, as usual, and Mum expresses her fears to him about my gallivanting about with a murderer on the loose. As always, Dad manages to calm Mum, winking at me over her head as he hugs her and soothes her. At least one of my parents is somewhat likeable.

Later, when I head to bed, sitting at my desk by the window to peer out onto our street, my mind wanders to what Phyllis told me about the murder. Bite marks in all sorts of places – disturbing. Haunting. Who would do such a thing? To think it happened here, in West Green, this laid-back, lacklustre town.

I lean against the window, staring out into the drizzly night when suddenly, I clutch my chest. Squinting, I lean closer to the murky glass, the hazy rain and darkness making it difficult to see, even with the streetlight. Still, as my heart beats wildly and I peer into the darkness, I’m certain that I’m not mistaken.

Across the street, a shadowy figure stands on the walkway, studying the McConnel house. It’s too dark to make out who it is or what the person is doing, but even from here I’m certain it’s a male figure due to the bulk of his stature. A lump forms in my throat as the figure turns, as if peering up at me. I shudder, trying to make out the face but unable to as suddenly, the person turns and walks casually away.

What was that? Who was it? I wonder, tears forming as panic rises. Is it – no, it can’t be. He must have calmed down by now. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve seen him. Time has dulled his resolve to get retribution, hasn’t it? But could the figure be someone else with even more sinister intent than Oliver? After all, Oliver’s a monster in his own right. But even he wouldn’t stoop to such horrific levels as the maniac who killed Elizabeth – would he? It’s a terrifying prospect, thinking that anyone in this town would be capable of such an atrocity. I think of Elizabeth’s mangled body tossed in the skip like rubbish, her face contorted. I shudder. I think about waking up my parents, to tell them what I’ve seen. But what have I seen? A person in the street? Nothing criminal, of course. I’m sure it’s just my weary brain panicking due to all the paranoia in town. That’s all. Who wouldn’t be bothered by the thought of Elizabeth in pieces? We’re all on edge. And when one’s on edge, the mind doesn’t hesitate to play warped tricks.

I crawl into bed, talking myself down. I take a deep breath and count, one, two, three, just like Mum always told me to do when I was nervous. As a child, I was often panicky, my heart racing at odd moments. She always taught me to count to three and to let it all go with the exhale of breath.

When I close my eyes, I reassure myself. No sense in getting my parents worked up over nothing. It was just a person in the street. Gosh, it was probably a constable patrolling, after all. Elizabeth was an unfortunate tragedy, but nothing more. It will all be fine. West Green is a safe place to live. But as I drift off to sleep that night thinking about Charles, I know the dreams that come will be more like nightmares as the terror from recent events settles into my chest, my bones, and my heart.

Chapter 3

Smith Creek Manor Nursing Home

2019

It feels so far below. The little pathway, the ground. It’s too far. My breathing is rapid as I study the ground. I thought I could do it, but I can’t. I can’t be up here. I turn now, looking back to Claire and the woman who are standing in the doorway.

‘It’s so far up,’ I say shakily. Claire steps forward.

‘It’s going to be fine, Mum,’ she consoles.

My head shakes, my heart racing as panic rises. I’m so far up here. One, two, three, I count in my head, just like my mum taught me so long ago. Over and over I count to three, the magic number. I need to calm down, but I can’t.

‘It’s too far up. If there’s a fire … you know I can’t be this far up,’ I say, my voice croaking out the words.

Claire reaches for my hands now. ‘Mum, listen. You know it’s okay. It’s very safe here, right Ms Martin?’

‘Oh, yes. State-of-the-art fire alarms and sprinklers. All will be okay, darling. No need to worry. For now, this is our only open room. Maybe in the future we could move you, but for now …’

My breathing picks up as I can feel the flames on my hands, licking up my body, scorching my face. I will burn here. It’s too far up. Why did they put me on this floor? My mind flashes to indistinguishable, panicked faces as the fire consumes them. It shows me a blip of my own face as I scream in agony, the smoke choking me as I claw at the window. I bury the thought, squeezing my eyes shut. So many years, but it never gets any easier, and my fears only seem to get stronger.

‘Mum, listen. You need to calm down. This isn’t good for you. You know you’re safe here. That’s why we picked this place. Safe. Sound.’ She leads me to the tiny bed, and I sit down. I breathe in and out. It’s okay. I’m going to be okay. Claire’s right. I’m fine. This fear isn’t anything new. I’m going to be fine.

I glance over to the bedside table where the staff has propped up some of the photographs Claire had sent over from my house. A photo of Charles and me sits by the lamp, another of Claire as a child right beside it. I smile at the memories, at the happy times. I think about how when I was in Charles’ arms, I could battle these fears from long ago. But he’s not here. And soon, Claire will be gone. I need to tackle my demons on my own. I’m on my own now, even though I’m surrounded by people. I’ve never felt more alone.

‘Here, dear. A glass of water will soothe you until we can get some tea up here,’ our tour guide says, handing me a tepid glass. I look up at her.

My heartbeat seems to calm as I sip the water. It’s bitter, chalky almost. It coats my throat in a peculiar film. I force down the chemical taste before holding up the glass, the water inside tinged and imperfect. I set the glass on the wooden table nearby, abandoning it. A moment of silence goes by. Finally, I look up to Ms— Her name. I don’t remember her name. I shake my head in frustration. I hate when this happens.

‘Well, I think I’m okay now. Thank you,’ I say to her, giving her the hint that she can leave. I’m tired. I need some time alone. I don’t want her hovering. There will be time enough for that.

‘Okay, well, if you need anything, there’s a call button right here,’ she says, showing me the button by the bed. ‘Or you can wander out to the nurse’s station. It’s the whole way down the hall and to the right, though. Kind of a long walk. No need to trouble yourself, dear. Just push the button, okay? The common area is down that way as well, in addition to a reading area, a community room, and some activity rooms. Oh, and the dining room. We can’t forget that. But I’m sure the staff will be happy to show you around when you’re ready.’

‘Thank you,’ I reply, knowing for sure I’m not really up to the common area just yet. Maybe I’ll never be ready for it. Maybe I’ll just pass the days here, staring out the window, or watching some mindless programmes on the tiny telly that’s in the corner of the room. Or maybe in a few days, I’ll be like my roommate, impassively staring at another world, gone from this one in all ways but my breathing. It’s hard to tell, and I’d rather not think too much on it.

Claire stays for a bit, chattering on and on about the activities and painting classes offered here and some dog that comes to visit the residents. I smile and nod, only half listening. I’m tired and numb, but my eyes are also peeled the whole way open, my heart racing as I take in the reality of this place. In truth, I don’t know what I am anymore. Smith Creek Manor has already stripped me of so many things – and it’s only been an hour or so. How much more will it take as the days tick by? I shudder as I consider it all.

‘Well, love, no use staying here all day. I’m sure you have plenty to do,’ I proclaim after a while, Claire holding my hand as she sits beside me on the bed.

‘Oh, nonsense, Mum. I took the day off. Wanted to get you all settled.’ Her smile is warm, her glossy lips turning up in the familiar gesture. Such a pretty, sweet girl, that daughter of mine. My miracle child. I squeeze her hand, thinking about how lucky I am in that department. I didn’t deserve a girl so beautiful after everything that happened.

‘Well, settled I am. Look, love. I have everything I need. Thank you. I’ll be just fine. And maybe I’ll do one of those … those … oh, what’s the word? Activities. That’s it. I’ll do one of those.’

Claire looks at me hesitantly, wondering if she should really go. I know this isn’t completely easy for her, either. None of this has been easy. She lost Charles, too, at the same time she lost that husband of hers. Good for nothing man, in my opinion. I knew it from the beginning. Her life has been in a state of upheaval like mine. And now she’s got my burdens to carry. I need to make things easy for her. I need to make Smith Creek Manor work – or at least make her feel like it is. My life is determined, the best days over, but hers isn’t. She still has some years left to enjoy and adventures to chase. And now more than ever, I understand how important that is.

‘Go on, now. Get yourself home. I know you’ve got plenty waiting for you there to keep you busy. I’m fine. You can ring me tomorrow, check in about that painting class and hear about all my excitements here. As you said, it’s a lovely place. I feel right at home.’

It’s a lie, and I think Claire knows it. But it works because she wants to believe it. We will believe almost anything when we need to, I realise.

‘All right, Mum. If you’re sure. But I’ll be back soon, okay?’

I smile, knowing her words are genuine. That daughter of mine has a good heart. Charles and I got that part right, at least.

‘I know, darling,’ I reply as she squeezes my frail hand.

‘Promise you’ll ring if you need anything?’

‘Cross my heart,’ I reply, smiling as she leans down to kiss my cheek before leaving. I take a breath once she’s gone, knowing I will do no such thing. Claire has her own life. I know she wants me here so I could be close, to make things easier. I obliged. But I don’t expect her to spend her waking hours here in this depressing place. She has things to tend to. She has a busy marketing career taking her all over the place. I will not tie her here.

I decide to walk back to the window, sitting down in the beige chair that’s near it as I stare out into the day. A bird flies by, landing in a tree. My eyes follow it, watching it flitter about for a while before I focus on another sight – the window across the way, the room on the same floor but on the other side of the U-shape. The figure is still there, a man staring out into the courtyard as well. He hasn’t moved, and suddenly my stomach lurches because it feels like he is staring right at me. I shake my head, steadying my gaze back on the trees, trying not to think about how far up I am.

So much upheaval in one day, so many changes. Still, there’s a familiarity here in this town as I remember where I am. I’d thought I’d never see Crawley again. I thought I’d never wander through West Green or Northgate, especially after I promised Charles all those years ago to leave this place in the past. Yet, now, here I am, and I don’t like it one bit. It’s been so long. So much has changed. But there’s still one thing that hasn’t – the feeling that Crawley won’t quite let me go, even after all this time. What were you thinking, Charles, telling our girl about this place? After the promises we made to leave it in the past – how could you do this?

I squeeze my eyes shut, looking away from the window. It wouldn’t do to get upset now. I open my eyes again and glance at the clock. Lunch isn’t for an hour or so, I think. What time did that woman say? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I’m sure I’m not very hungry anyway. Perhaps it would do me some good to take a walk.

I stand from the chair, my knees cracking with the effort. When did I get so old? I wander out to the corridor, but I stop at the threshold and glance at my roommate. What’s her name? Shoot. My eyes land, however, on the noticeboard near her bed and see the drawing of the rose. Is that it? Rose? I think so. My eyes fall back on the woman. She hasn’t moved, still sitting and staring at the centre of the room. I study her for a moment. Her eyes shift, her head moving almost imperceptibly.

I think for a moment she might talk, her lips flapping slightly, her hands curled in on themselves in her lap. She moves one hand up and down, slowly, carefully. It bangs on her legs, tucked in underneath the white blanket wrapped around her.

She emits a moan from her lips. She’s trying to speak, her eyes desperately locked on mine. She blinks over and over and over, a rapid succession of movement from her that I haven’t yet seen. My heart flutters as I walk across the room.

‘Rose? What is it?’ I ask, reaching for her hand. She jumps as I touch her, the groan intensifying.

I can’t understand her. I stare into her drooping face, but no answers come. The poor thing is lost and confused. Is she even really in there, mentally? Does she understand what’s going on around her? I’m not sure.

‘There, there, Rose. It’s okay. I’m going to go for a walk, okay? You take a rest.’ I pat her hand, her skin cold and clammy like she’s already in the grave. In many ways, I suppose she is.

I smile once more, turning to leave. She emits a screeching whimper, desperation clinging to every piece of the sound. It spreads like a plague in my chest, drowning me in uncertainty. Although sorrow for Rose certainly builds within, another emotion pools beneath it: terror. How am I going to survive this? How can I endure a place where death and devastation are in my face every single moment? I know I should be glad that even with my health problems, I still have mobility and my wits about me. I have a lot in Smith Creek Manor terms. But there’s something about the home that just seems to remind me of all I have to lose. I can already sense a harsh reality few want to uncover; this place divests a person until they’re nothing but a pile of bones under a blanket, mumbling incoherently as saddened onlookers try their best to unsee the realities. I don’t want to face Rose’s fate. I don’t. It feels like there’s a contagion in this place, and the closer you get to someone like Rose, the more likely it is you’ll fall prey to the unseemly loss of all you hold dear.

So I do what so many do in these kinds of homes. I turn my head, leaving Rose alone, as I step further away and into the corridor. The staircase is adjacent to the left, that door guarding it. A code box hangs beside it on the wall, the cool metal of it taunting me as the fluorescent light glides over it. Instantly, my heart starts to beat faster and faster until it’s racing wildly. A sensation rises, a familiar paranoia I try so hard to suppress.

I’m trapped. I’m trapped here. I can’t escape. Even the stairs have a code, one that I don’t know. My breathing increases. I count to three. I need to calm down. I reach for the wall to steady myself, tears forming.

‘Dear, is everything okay?’ a voice says as footsteps echo on the floor. I turn to my right to see a young nurse with brown hair and a reassuring smile. She quickly marches towards me.

‘I’m fine,’ I offer weakly, but my face must say otherwise because the woman quickens her pace. She clutches my arm gently, and I let myself lean on her.

‘There, there. I know. All such a change. I’m Grace. Come on, now. Let’s get you to a chair. Looks like you’ve seen a ghost or something.’

I don’t argue, letting her lead me back into my room, towards the chair I just left. I avert my eyes from Rose, willing myself not to look over there. My heart beats frantically, which causes my panic to rise. I know I have to stay calm. I can’t let this happen, not again.

‘Now, come on. What shall I get you? Fancy a cuppa?’ Grace asks, her melodious voice wrapping itself around me as I settle by the window once more.

‘The code,’ I spat at her, without any thought.

‘What code?’ she asks, stooping down to look into my face.

‘The stairs. I need the code for the stairs.’ My fingers viciously cling to the velvety feel of the chair’s armrest.

She studies me, her smile pitying. ‘You won’t need the code for the stairs. After all, who wants to use them when there’s a perfectly good lift?’ Her smile is warm. I might like her in other circumstances. But thinking of that lift, I shudder. I wouldn’t describe it as perfectly good, or even safe. I think about the creakiness, about the jolting noises.

I persist, hoping she’ll give in. ‘I need the code. If there’s a fire. I need to know it. And that lift is so terrifying. I hate the lift,’ I demand, shaking my head, frustration building. She doesn’t understand. She just doesn’t know.

‘You’ll get used to the lift, love. It’s just a bit old, but it’s completely safe, I promise. And there hasn’t been a fire at Smith Creek Manor, ever. If there were, we’ll be right here in a jiffy. No need to panic, truly. Now why don’t you come with me? I’ll show you the common room down the hall. Do you some good to meet some friendly faces. There are some sweet women down there who love knitting and gossip. And tea. They love their tea, of course. Now how about that cuppa?’

I stare at her, blinking. My mind hurts. I don’t know why I’m so – what am I? Goodness, this is all just confusing. I don’t know how to feel.

So, I say the only thing I can. ‘Fine.’ I let her lead me down the sterile corridor, the lights still blinding as the nurse waffles about this resident and that, as if I’m starting a new school instead of the first day of the end of my life.

Chapter 4

‘Listen, trust me. This floor isn’t so bad. Sure, we got a few who are a bit crackers up here. It’s true. And a couple that just, well, between you and me, give me the absolute creeps and all, some creepy ones. But overall, it’s okay up here. Fewer nurses to bother you, and there are even a few sane residents here on Floor Three. But then again, the nurses don’t mind us much up here. We’re sort of the forgotten floor, you know?’

The woman knitting beside me at the table chatters on and on. Dorothy, I think she said her name was. I don’t remember her surname. I clutch the tea that the nurse gave me, my hands warming on the Styrofoam cup. No fine china here, I suppose.

A game show blares in the community room area nearby, and a few patients – residents, I stand corrected – gape mindlessly at it. One woman is parked in a wheelchair in the corner, touching the wall, repeating the name Philip with such angst, it makes my heart ache. Her whimpers rise above the announcer on the show, mixing in a strange cacophony of joy and agony, symbolic of what this place holds.

Dorothy sits, knitting some crooked, scratchy blanket. The nurse sat me at this table, told me I’d make quick friends with this woman. I don’t know. But, looking around, she seems to be one of the few who can hold a conversation. These people are just so – old. So old. So gone. Or maybe this place just does that to a person.

I sigh. ‘Doesn’t sound like a good thing to be forgotten.’

‘It all depends, Adeline. It’s Adeline, right? Did you say Adeline?’

I nod. ‘Friends call me Addy.’

‘I’ll go with Adeline for now, then, if it’s all the same to you. Too soon to tell if we’re going to be friends or not.’

I nod again. I can respect that.

‘Regardless, as I was saying, being forgotten here is not a terrible thing. Fewer nurses means less poking and prodding. It means more peace and quiet. And if I’m going to leave this world soon, I could use some peace and quiet. Of course, I suppose there are downfalls to being forgotten. That woman in 306 found out the hard way a while back.’

I look up from my tea now, staring at Dorothy. ‘What happened to her?’ My curiosity is piqued, but I suppose in a place where magazines, knitting, and some weak tea are the only excitement, it doesn’t take much.

Dorothy shrugs. ‘Murder, or at least that’s what rumour has it. Staff of course claim it was a bad fall. But I’ve never seen someone turn a hue of purple like that from a simple trip, you know?’

I blink, waiting for her to crack a smile, some sadistic joke. She doesn’t laugh, though. She stops knitting and looks at me.

‘Who did it?’ I ask, needing to know but afraid all the same.

Dorothy shrugs. ‘Some say the staff were in there to sedate her with something right before she was found dead. Apparently, she had been raving about some odd occurrences, had been seeing some strange stuff.’

‘The staff?’ I ask, making sure I’ve heard her correctly.

Dorothy looks up at me, peeks left and right as if to see if anyone is listening. Then, she leans in. ‘Did the whole tour guide bit fool you? Gets the best of most of us. But shall we say this place isn’t quite what it seems to be from the little pamphlets they give you? Sure, they give you plenty of tea. But it’s not as cosy as they want you to believe. In fact, from some of the things I’ve seen, it’s downright dangerous here if you’re not careful.’

My stomach churns. This is not what I wanted to hear. Suddenly, a wave of fear slaps into me. Regrets flood over me, a feeling that’s all too familiar. Suddenly, returning to Crawley seems like the worst idea I’ve ever had, this eerie building in an even eerier section of town stirring a sense of foreboding in me.

‘Dear, don’t worry too much, though. If you play it smart and wind your neck in, it’ll be okay. As I said, Floor Three is the perfect place to blend in. Just don’t stir any trouble, stay unnoticed, and you’ll be fine. And that Grace on our floor, she’s a true gem. Really. Besides, the talk about the woman in 306 – who really knows what happened, right? – could just be Chinese whispers, truly. Or it could’ve been one of the patients who lived here at the time. Some smarmy fellows have come through here, if you ask me.’

I study her face, trying to decide if she’s telling the truth now or if she’s just trying to calm me. I don’t know. But in my gut, something tells me that Crawley’s dark past is still haunting these grounds – and now I’m back in its clutches.

Regardless of what happened in 306, this is all a bit frightening. I already feel lost in this place – but now, I realise there’s so much I don’t know. This certainly is some unwelcome news, and not the kind of excitement I was hoping for.

‘Oh, my apologies. My late husband always said I had a penchant for ruining the mood. There, there. Nothing much to worry about. It was a couple of years ago, after all. Who knows what happened? No trouble since then. Smith Creek Manor isn’t perfect, mind you, but it could be worse. It could always be worse. Besides, few last long in this place anyway. New people all the time. Except me, I suppose. I’ve been one of the few to outlast Smith Creek, at least so far.’

I stir in my seat, readjusting to try to get comfortable. I don’t know if I can. Murder isn’t the sort of thing I’d envisioned in a place like this. True, when I came here, I knew it was a final stop. I just hadn’t imagined going out like that. I close my eyes, thinking about the strangling ivy on the stone walls. It’s almost like I can feel it all constrict a little more, like the air is going out of this place. The all too familiar feeling of being trapped resurfaces from long ago. It’s a claustrophobic feeling I don’t welcome.

‘Anyway, enough about me. Tell me about you. First day’s always tough. Have you chatted with anyone yet?’

‘My roommate doesn’t talk, don’t think she can. And then just you. Not much to tell, I suppose. I’m simply trying to sort everything out.’

‘Not much to it. Everyone essentially keeps to themselves. But I will say, there are a few fit ones here if you’re searching for that sort of excitement.’ She winks, causing me to smile.

‘I’ve been there before. Not sure that’s really what I need right now.’ I grin.

‘Oh, I do. And when you see the few gentlemen Floor Three has to offer, well, maybe you’ll change your mind. Room 313 has quite the smouldering eyes. I imagine he was a good catch in his day. Oh, and I think it’s 310, the priest, he’s got some nice features, too. I’m not picky, after all – religious or not, he’s quite a feast for the eyes. But you do have to look out for him. Temper on that one. Nice to look at, but that’s about it. Still, got to get our fun where we can.’

‘What room are you in?’ I ask, letting my guard down. She seems nice enough.

‘305, dear. On the other side of the nurse’s station and down the hall a bit. Stop down anytime. I keep a lovely stash of digestives and Jaffa Cakes. The food is depressing around here. So start stocking up any time family comes. Stash all the sweets you can. Trust me. Insider tip.’

I nod, taking a sip of my tea. It’s weak, but not terrible. Better than the water, I suppose.

‘Oh, and one more thing.’

My head turns as I look at Dorothy, who continues her knitting. Her face is serious now, her gaze hardened.

‘Be careful not to ask for anything at night if you can help it. The night nurse who takes care of your end, well, he’s one you want to avoid.’ Her warning is quiet but stern. I know there’s no joke there.

‘Why?’ I ask, my head aching from so much new information.

‘Let’s just say he’s not the kindest man. Gives me the downright creeps, if I’m being honest. His name’s Jones. Seems to have a strong fancy for the female nurse on the second floor, which is all right by me. It means he’s not up here when he should be sometimes. But, well, trust me – when he’s up here, be careful. Other than that, it’s all great here on Floor Three. Yep. Absolutely perfect.’

I take another sip of tea, turning in my seat to look out into the common area. The Philip Woman has drifted off to sleep, her head lolling at an awkward angle. I wait for someone to come and fix it, but no one does. Her hair is lurched forward, a tangled mop of grey curls covering her face. She looks like an abandoned, mangy sheep dog. I guess Dorothy’s right. The nurses here are few and far between. It looks like we may just be on our own around here in more ways than one.

***

I jump up in a cold sweat, my heart racing as I clutch my chest. The moonlight shines through the window onto my bed. But this isn’t my bed. Where am I? I don’t understand. What’s happening? I don’t know where I—

‘You’ll die here. You will. Get out now. Get out while you can. You’ll die here,’ a bewildered voice pleads as a wrinkled hand clutches my arm. I startle. There is a figure standing over me, muttering over and over, repeating the phrases that send true terror to my heart. I yank back, but the person seems to climb towards me, closer and closer. I flinch, trying to pull away, ready to scream. My lips tremble and my breathing is ragged. I open my mouth, but no sounds come out. What’s happening? My mind wildly flails about, trying to settle on one interpretation of the scene.

‘You’ll die here. You will. I’m telling you, lady. Get out now. Get out.’ The words spew faster and faster, and spit lands on me. The figure is close enough that I can make out her short, curly hair, her feminine jawline. She is frothing at the mouth as she yanks at my arm and claws at me. She shreds the shoulder of my nightshirt with one hand as the other vehemently digs into my arm. Saliva leaks from her lips as she repeats the lines endlessly in a racing fury. I move my arms about, trying to startle her away, but she doesn’t flinch. Her fingers are crusty with what, I don’t know. Her nails, long and sharp, scratch into my arm painfully, and I’m afraid to look at the damage she’s causing. A warm, sickly feeling oozes down my arm. I think I must be bleeding. I struggle away, shifting on the bed, trying to back up. The call button. I need to push the call button.

I reach around the figure, my eyes adjusting. I grab for the button, my sanctuary. I push it over and over and over. No one comes. I push it again as the woman paws and mauls me, scratching and clawing incessantly as she repeats her mantra. I look up at her, trying to calm her, pleading with her to stop. Her eyes are glazed over and white. They look like they’re oozing in a supernatural way. Her gaze is blank, marred by the milky white haze of cataracts.

I’m ready to shout out, to scream, when suddenly, a cackle rises from her slimy lips as the hand lets go of my arm. The woman turns and slowly trudges out of the room, the deranged laugh bellowing as she does. Tears drip from my eyes. I push the button again. And again. But the person is gone. All quiets down, and I wonder why no one is coming. A few minutes pass as my heart beats wildly. I pant and wrap my arms around myself. Tears trickle down my face. I stare at the doorway, wondering if she’ll come back, trying to assess the situation. I’m too afraid to look down and see what sort of condition I’m in.

After a few more moments pass by, I reach for the cord of the lamp. I turn on the light and take stock of my arm, of the room. My arm is bleeding, scratches up and down it like a rabid animal has mauled me. In some ways, I suppose it’s true. The curtain that separates Rose’s area of the room from mine is pulled across, so I can’t see her, but I hear a raspy gurgle from her side, a sputtering inhale that does nothing to calm my frayed nerves. I touch the blanket on the bed, rubbing the threadbare material between my thumb and forefinger. It’s real. All of this is real. It’s not a nightmare. It’s happening. I’m not home. I’m not at Quail Avenue. I’m here. That’s right. I’m here now.

What was that? Who was that? I don’t know. Grogginess lifted, I slink out of bed, stand, and slowly stretch my stiff legs. After a long moment of staring out the window, a voice bellows into the room.

‘What is it?’

I startle, jumping out of my skin. I turn around to see a man in a nurse’s uniform, standing back from the doorway. He is bald, but his dark moustache curls up on his lip, giving him a sneering look. Or maybe he is sneering.

‘Th-there was … someone was here … I saw someone.’ I want to ask why he didn’t come sooner, but something stops me from uttering the words.

The man crosses the room in three quick strides. ‘Get back to bed,’ he orders gruffly, not waiting for me to explain.

‘Sorry, there was someone—’

‘Come on, old woman. There’s no one here. Get in bed.’ He grabs my arm, the same one the person – there was a person, wasn’t there? – was grabbing. He roughly hurries me towards my bed, ignoring the scratches and blood dripping on my arm. My skin burns at his touch, the flesh still raw. I fall a little before he forces me into bed and roughly adjusts the blanket around me. He cocoons me in as if the blanket will keep me hostage in the bed and he won’t have to deal with me again.

‘I won’t be having any more trouble, will I?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow. He leans in now, closer and closer. He is centimetres from my face.

‘No, sir,’ I whisper, a new fear gripping my heart.

‘Goddamn right, I won’t,’ he whispers harshly into the space between us, and I shudder at the way he looks at me. It’s a threatening glance, one that challenges me to defy him. I don’t dare consider it.

He backs up, looking at me for an uncomfortably long moment, before pulling the lamp cord. But before he does, I notice a nametag. I see the familiar name.

Jones.

Why do I know that name? Why is it ringing a bell? I search in my mind for the answer. Was it the knitting lady? Did she say something about him?

My head throbs as I try to sort all of it out – the mysterious figure, the nurse, the name. Jones curses again under his breath, the darkness plummeting about me, as he leaves the room. When he’s gone, I begin to wonder if there’s more to worry about on Floor Three than I could have ever imagined.

Chapter 5

A hand startles me awake, and I sit up, gasping. It takes a moment for me to recognise where I am, the sunlight now streaming through the windows and illuminating the room. I stare at the pink wallpaper, faded to a dusky, decaying rose colour. The floral pattern is so muted and miniscule that it looks like scratches on the wallpaper instead of the ornate design the decorator probably intended. My eyes absorb the depressing sight of the room, my home now, as I take another deep breath. Exhaustion pounds in my skull, crackling against my brain. I didn’t sleep well, not at all, and my neck is stiff from the tension.

‘Mrs Evans, it’s breakfast time. Are you going to the dining room to eat with the others, or shall I bring your morning meal to you?’ I peer up at the nurse standing above me. Her red hair is pulled tight into a bun, the pasty skin on her face stretching back so tautly her cheek bones look like they might rupture through. Her face is placid, stoic, as she says my name with tart condescension mirrored in her eyes. I’m not sure if she’s just got a permanent poker face or if her hairstyle prohibits any expression from showing through. My head spins and aches. It craves to be plopped back down on the pillow and to let sleep wash away all of last night’s calamities.

‘Can I just take my meal here today?’ I ask.

‘Fine. I’ll bring it back around when I get to it.’

With that, the harsh-looking woman is off to jostle Rose, who doesn’t have a choice in the matter since she can’t speak up. The woman flings back the curtain, the only semblance of privacy in our room now foiled. Rose coughs and sputters, squealing at the sight of the nurse. As the serious woman rousts Rose up from the bed, my frail roommate stares at one thing – me. Her arm, trembling from the effort, rises just a bit. I notice her hand, curled into a fist, is shaking violently. Is she shaking it at me? I don’t have time to decide because harsh woman is complaining about the mess Rose has made and how she’ll need to tend to that before breakfast. I sigh in my bed, transferring my gaze to the window. There’s so much wrong in this place, but I feel a little guilty. It could be worse. Rose has it harder than me, for sure. I suppose I should be grateful that at least I can choose where to eat my breakfast. At least there’s still that.

When the nurse has gotten Rose into the wheelchair with the assistance of some brute of a man, she wheels her out of the room. Rose’s head is cocked towards me, shaking to the side. She mumbles as they wheel her away. I feel terrible, but I am gloriously thankful when they are gone and the room is quiet again. I settle back into bed, but I find that sleep doesn’t return. I blink, lying on my side as I peer out the window into the dismal greyness of the day. What day of the week is it? I don’t much know anymore. It seems time in here is a whirling enigma. Truthfully, I guess it doesn’t matter much anymore what day it is. They are all the same, and I have nowhere I need to be. No one is expecting me anywhere, and no one is remembering me, in honesty. That’s a lonely thought. I decide to push it aside.

I blink a few times, thinking about last night, about the arm on my hand. I think about Jones and his reaction. I think about the blood-curdling feeling that all is not well on Floor Three, that this place isn’t quite what it seems. The faux homey appearance they try to create with the dusty, dried bouquets of flowers sitting on archaic stands in the hallways. The cheery-coloured paint in the common room, the bird cage with tiny finches near the lift. It’s all a façade to make us feel at home. But this isn’t home. And something tells me I might not want it to be.

Whoever was in my room last night had a warning, clear and painfully frightening. It’s not safe here. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that I see specks in the forced blackness. It’s nonsense. It must be. What real danger could there be in a place like this? Who would come here to carry out malicious plots? What would be the point, after all?

The harsh nurse drops off a tray a few moments later with a spot of tea, some eggs, beans, and what I suppose is meant to imitate breakfast ham. It looks rubbery and grey, an oozing film coating it in an unnatural, unappetising way. After wrestling with the thought of tucking myself back under the blanket and making this whole place disappear with sleep, I decide there’s no use. There will be no serene sleep today, my nerves battling my mind’s need to rest. I sit up wearily, gently folding the scratchy blanket back from my legs.

After plodding to the loo, I gather my strength to get dressed. I’m supposed to push a button to ask for help to change. I find that insulting. I have a heart condition and some forgetfulness that comes and goes. I am not a child. I slowly, painfully pick out an outfit from the chest of drawers, tucking myself into a plain grey pullover and some comfortable trousers. I don’t dare look into the mirror. Goodness knows I don’t need to be any more depressed than I already am.

I snatch the tea from the tray and I wander out of my room, glancing first towards the staircase. It still irks me that it’s locked. I take a breath, though, knowing it’s pointless to worry about it now. I need to focus my mind on other things. Thus, I turn to the right and set out for the common area, deciding that some exploring may do me good.

I plod onward, peeking into rooms here and there, the doors all flung open. When I get to Room 312, though, I notice the door is still shut. Odd, I think. I stop for a moment to catch my breath and wonder what curiosity the room holds. I’m tempted to reach out and touch the door knob, to peek in. I don’t, though. Wouldn’t do to make enemies here by intruding. Still, there’s something unnerving about Room 312, a murky horror that evades all reasoning. I don’t know what it is, but something about the door both lures me in and repels me with all its might.

I keep walking, passing a man in a wheelchair, his head slumped slightly backwards, his throat exposed. He rolls gently back and forth. His eyes pierce into mine, and I shudder, feeling like there’s something he wants to say but can’t. Agony drips from his watery eyes. It seems like tears want to fall from them but can’t. Slowly, methodically, careful not to trip, I march on until I finally reach the common room.

‘There you are. We thought you escaped already,’ Dorothy announces, cackling over a cup of tea. Another lady sits beside her in a wheelchair, but she just stares up at me and grins. She’s missing an eye. I tell myself not to stare at the gaping socket, not to be rude. I sit down in an empty chair beside her, my tea in hand.

‘You look like you didn’t sleep a wink. Rough night?’ Dorothy asks.

I shrug, biting my lip. I wonder if I should tell her. I don’t know her yet. I don’t want people to think I’m – what? What would they think? I did nothing wrong.

‘Yes,’ I admit. ‘Some crazy things happened.’

‘Crazy in a good way?’ Dorothy asks.

‘Crazy in the way that someone was standing over my bed last night.’ I tuck a long, grey strand of my greasy hair behind my ear.

Dorothy shakes her head. ‘Babbling Barbara.’

‘What?’

‘Babbling Barbara,’ Dorothy repeats, slowly this time. ‘I could almost bet my life it was her. She’s the floor’s lunatic. She’s madder than mad. Been here since before me. I think she’s too bonkers to die, you know? She wanders this place like a vagabond. Not even sure the staff know where her room is anymore. She gets lost all the time, even at night. One time I caught her sleeping in my bed while I was in it. Frightening but harmless. Nothing to worry about, dear. Nothing at all. She’s truly not capable of hurting anyone, although her crazy babbling is enough to send even the sanest of us to the loony bin.’

‘She hurt me, and it was pretty frightening. Look what she did,’ I reply, rolling up my sleeve to show Dorothy my wounds.

‘Oh my goodness,’ Dorothy gasps as she shakes her head. She leans in to examine my arm more closely. ‘Barbara did this?’

I sigh. ‘I suppose, if it was truly her. Yes. It was awful. She mauled me and wouldn’t stop.’

Dorothy shakes her head. ‘She’s never done anything like this. It’s peculiar. She truly has been harmless. But goodness, that’s terrible.’

Dorothy’s gaze lifts from my arm, and as she stares into my eyes, I get the sense she’s telling the complete truth. She shakes her head again before sighing and moving on with the conversation. I want to shove the worrisome event aside, to pretend it didn’t happen. Still, as Dorothy blabs on about some of the soap operas she watches and her grandchildren, I stare into my tea, thinking about Barbara’s words.

You’ll die here. You will. Get out now. Get out while you can.

For a mad woman, they sure were coherent phrases. Why did she choose those words? Does she say them to everyone? And above all, if what Dorothy said is true, why am I the only one who has been attacked by her? It’s too frightening to think about. I try to forget the worries, but they sink their teeth into me, gnashing and grinding conspicuously in the recesses of my memory to be rustled out later.

‘It’s a shame you missed breakfast, you know? I would’ve introduced you to some of Floor Three’s finer residents. But don’t worry. There’s still time, of course. We’ve got plenty of time. Hopefully.’

The woman beside Dorothy chuckles at that, like it’s the funniest joke. I do not.

After a long while, I stand from the table. ‘I think I’ll go ring my daughter,’ I announce, suddenly feeling confined in this room. There’s too much furniture here. I don’t like how everyone is just sitting around. I need to be alone. I suddenly, mercilessly thirst for solitude.

‘Are you sure? I think the painting class starts in two hours. Be certain to come. It’s really fun. And the university boy they bring in is a real dream. If I were just a tad younger, I’d have a go at him. Give him something really special to paint.’ Dorothy winks before readjusting her glasses to underscore her point.

‘Okay,’ I reply, turning with my almost-empty Styrofoam cup, slightly surprised by Dorothy’s forward promiscuity. My fingers crunch the cup until a piece falls in on itself.

But before I even turn the whole way around and pointing in the correct direction, I startle, dropping the cup.

‘Get out while you can. Get out,’ she gurgles, her craggy face scrunched up as her finger wags in my line of sight. Her milky eyes are crusty today, the bright whiteness of them alarming in a foreign way in the light. The words strangle in my throat, and I’m suddenly sputtering and coughing, clasping my chest as I back up, almost upsetting the table.

‘Barbara, dear, you’re scaring Adeline. Stop it,’ Dorothy orders, standing from her chair.

Barbara clenches my arms, though, aggravating the fresh scratches she left last night. She leans in close, her musty breath careening into my face. Her milky eyes laser into mine, sending a shiver through me. It’s as if she can see straight through me, even though common sense tells me she can’t. Her fingers are sticky.

‘You’ll die here. You will,’ she whispers, and tears form in my eyes as a creeping, crawling feeling reverberates through me. Before I can respond, though, she hoots, smiling, and releases my arm. She clunks off down the corridor in the other direction, slightly leaning to the right and mumbling about daisies and the red rain.

I stand for a moment, staring down at the cup on the floor. It’s crunched up and broken, the few drops of tea that lurked in the bottom spattered about it.

‘There, there, dear. Here you go,’ a nurse says, stooping down to pick up the cup. ‘I’ve got it, Mrs Evans. It’s fine.’

I look into the brown eyes of the nurse. Tightening my face in confusion, I grab my head. ‘Who are you? I don’t know you,’ I say, needing this woman to back up, to give me space.

‘I’m Grace, dear. Remember, we met yesterday?’

I stare at the woman, so desperately needing to know her. I will myself to place her. But I just can’t. Fear bubbles inside, and I place a hand on my chest.

‘It’s okay. No problem. You had a hectic day yesterday. Come on, let me take you to your room. This way now,’ her voice reassures. I’m still stressed, but her voice is kind and her eyes reassure me. I follow her.

‘I’ll check in with you later, Adeline,’ a voice calls. I turn around to see the woman at the table, knitting. Dottie? Dorothy? I think it’s Dorothy. I’m pretty sure. But then again …

I hate it when this happens. I hate it when I can’t remember. I hate it when I forget simple things. I hate it when I feel out of control, like I’m not even in charge of my own self. The forgetfulness comes and goes, some days better than others. The doctors say it is to be expected with this disease, but they don’t understand how frustrating it is. From day to day, from moment to moment, my mind warps and twists so quickly. Some moments, everything is as clear as a crystal. And others, a murky fog settles in, threatening to obliterate every basic memory and thought and rendering me incapable of the smallest task. How helpless can one be? My hands ball into trembling fists, and every joint screams in pain.

The nurse leads me back to my room, and I unfurl my fists, giving my fingers a chance to relax. I reach up to the wall outside of my room and let my fingers trace the black numbers. 316. I live here in 316.

‘Need anything? More tea?’ the nurse asks.

I shake my head, staring at the tray of cold breakfast foods beside my chair. I inhale, but before the nurse can leave, I reach out and touch her arm.

‘Wait. My daughter. I want to talk to my daughter,’ I assert.

‘Certainly. Do you know the number?’

I look at the phone sitting on the nightstand as I cross the room slowly, my feet shuffling along. When I finally get to it, my hands reach for the phone. Do I remember? Can I do this? I’m so afraid I won’t remember. However, I know I need to get a hold of myself. I’m not a quitter. I don’t back down.

‘Yes,’ I say confidently, even though I don’t quite believe it. My fingers slowly reach towards the numbers, and I pause, wondering if they’ll be able to accomplish the feat. I sigh when they methodically dial the familiar numbers. They remember even when I don’t. All isn’t lost, I realise, assurance surging through me as I hear Claire’s voice on the line.

‘Mum, everything okay?’

‘Yes, Claire. Lovely. All is lovely. Just having some tea and thinking of you,’ I say, looking to the nurse to smile and thank her. But she is gone. Too much to do I suppose. Too much to do in a world where so many of us have nothing left at all. How cruel life can be.

‘Do you want me to come over?’ Claire asks.

I do. I so desperately do.

‘No, no. It’s all fine. I just wanted to talk to you,’ I lie.

We continue our conversation, Claire filling me in about the new client she’s working with at the advertising agency. She talks about things I don’t understand, but I don’t much care. It’s just nice to hear a warm, friendly voice I know. It’s so cold here.

While I’m chatting, there’s a knock on the threshold. I turn to see a man stooped at my door. His eyes are dark, his eyebrows unruly. He’s got a strong jawline, I notice, but it’s like his nose is too small for his face, like his head has swallowed it up.

And then there’s the scar, a bubbling, blatant scar along the top of his forehead, a line that’s parallel with the floor. I try not to startle. Wouldn’t do to be rude. All the patients around here tend to wear clothes that look like pyjamas, but not him. He’s wearing a button-up shirt and some brown trousers that seem like they’ve never been taken off. They’re ripped and worn, a stark contrast to the nice-looking shirt.

I leave the phone up at my ear. The man smirks, offering a little wave. The smile comes off as a crooked sneer, the few teeth peeking through tarnished brown.

‘Menu,’ he whispers, holding up a piece of paper. He limps into my room to the noticeboard on the wall closest to the door. His eyes flit about, as if he’s taking in the sight of my room but also terrified to encroach on my space. His movements are dramatic, as if he has to show me he’s only hanging something on the noticeboard and nothing else. I like that. I like that he’s respectful of my space. See, you can’t judge a book by its cover. I feel rude now, judging him for some ailments and disfigurements. As if to make up for it, I nod and smile overly wide, Claire still talking about some new initiative at work, as he tacks up a pink paper on my board.

I think about telling Claire to hold so I can thank him, but he’s too fast. He’s out of the room before I can blink, the limp no longer seeming to ail him. I wonder who he is. Is he one of the men that knitting woman was talking about, but which one? He looks somewhat familiar, but I’ve passed so many people, it’s hard to tell or to place him. I suppose I have time to figure it out. In some ways, I have nothing but time.

When Claire and I are finished talking, I hang up the phone. Standing from my bed, I decide to venture back out. No use being cooped up in here the whole time. I meander around, peering in rooms but trying not to get caught. I don’t want people thinking I’m snooping.

The day goes surprisingly fast. Later on, the nurses eventually find me to take me down to Floor One where the medical rooms are. I shudder as they lead me into the shaky lift. As the metal doors screech to a close and the metal box sputters, I want nothing more than to climb right back out. The ride is jumpy and creaky. It takes so long to get to the bottom floor that I convince myself it’s definitely broken, that we’ll be trapped in the box of death for hours. My heart races, and just as I’m ready to start clawing my way out, the doors mercifully creak halfway open, pause, and then open the whole way. It’s like the indecisive doors are thinking about staying shut. I scuttle out and pray I won’t have to use it too often in the coming months.

I have a few check-ups on the first floor with some doctors who seem to want to talk way too much about my heart, giving nosy nurses too much information about my medical history and telling them what to look out for like I’m not even in the room. When I return from their poking and prodding, I spend most of the afternoon sitting with the knitting woman, wandering about, and eventually taking a seat in the little lending library at the other end of Floor Three. I enjoy the peacefulness of the reading area so much, I return after dinner instead of joining in some activity downstairs later that night. I doze off, and when I startle awake, the nursing home is quiet except for a few characteristic moans from Floor Three. I rise from my seat, deciding it’s time to return to my room.

But when I get to the corridor, I’m disoriented. It’s been too long. Where am I? Where is my room? What room am I in? I look to the left. There are a few rooms that way. I look to the right. There’s a long corridor around the corner. Where do I go? I don’t know. I take a breath, going right. I walk looking in rooms, peering at numbers. What number do I need? How don’t I know? I don’t understand.

‘This way, Adeline,’ a voice barks. I look to see the harsh woman from this morning ushering me down the hallway. Is she still here? What a long day for her.

I nod, following her to my room, relieved she was there despite her glower and her angry mutterings about imbecilic residents. I ignore her icy, squeezing fingers on my arm that dig into my flesh as she yanks me forward. I was going the right way, I realise. This soothes me. Still, when I get to the room, my fingers trace the numbers again. I need to lock them into my mind. 316. I live in 316.

She doesn’t offer to help me change out of my clothes, instead shoving me into bed with a quick movement that jars me.

‘Don’t be wandering, you hear? We have enough to do without chasing down lost rubbish,’ she spits at me. I blink, staring up at the woman, feeling so powerless. Once she’s gone, I exhale out the day’s stresses, trying to think about all that’s happened. My eyes are heavy with exhaustion, and I know I’ll soon be asleep – even with Rose’s gurgling. Still, I know there’s something I must do.

My mind is wavering, whether I like it or not. But I must stay sharp. I need to stay with it. If the knitting lady is right and this place isn’t as safe as it seems, I need to be careful not to slip up. I lean over to the stand beside my bed and yank on the lamp cord. I slowly pull open the drawer and find a Bible and a notebook. I pluck a sheet of paper from the pad, locate the pen in the drawer, and lean onto the hard surface of the stand to jot down notes.

316: my room.

Knitting lady … Dorothy? Deborah?

Code to the stairwell?

I look at the list of reminders to myself. Not very impressive, but I haven’t been here long. At least this will help me keep track of information. Maybe it will nudge me tomorrow to remember what I need to find out. I need to keep my wits about me. That’s the one thing I’m certain of.

I tuck the paper in the back of the Bible, out of sight. I don’t need Claire or the home discounting me as mad. I don’t need them having more ammunition to write me off as nothing more than a disintegrating pile of flesh. I tug on the lamp cord, settle back into bed, and close my eyes. Rose’s gurgles continue to rattle in the background, but I’m so exhausted, it doesn’t matter. Drowsiness settles in, and I almost forget about everything that happened the night before.

But a while after I fall asleep, with the blackness of the night enveloping me, I hear something that sends pure terror through me. It’s a startling sound I just can’t ignore.

Second Body Discovered in West Green; Citizens on High Alert as Threat Spreads

West Green, Crawley, West Sussex

28 June 1959

Citizens of West Green are on high alert as a second body this month has been uncovered in Ifield Pond Saturday morning, 27 June 1959, after a thorough investigation.

The body of Mrs Helen Deeley was found in Ifield Pond after a shoe was discovered by a Crawley resident at the edge of the water. Questioning of Mr John Deeley led investigators to believe that the shoe belonged to the missing Helen Deeley, and a search ensued. The body of the deceased was removed from the pond, and detectives are still conducting a search for more evidence in this case.

Mrs Deeley was not at their residence when Mr John Deeley returned home from work on 22 June, which was unusual for the housewife. When Mrs Deeley failed to return by the next morning, an extensive search ensued in West Green, but there was no sign of the woman.

Mrs Helen Deeley’s death comes only a couple of weeks after the body of Elizabeth McKinley was discovered in a skip in West Green. With two murders in less than a month, residents of the typically peaceful neighbourhood are on high alert. The West Sussex Constabulary will not offer speculation as to whether the two murders are related despite the unarguable similarities regarding the bite marks on the bodies.

However, Mr Deeley was questioned in his wife’s disappearance after detectives exposed that he was involved in an extramarital affair. The West Sussex Constabulary notes that John Deeley is considered a prime suspect in his wife’s murder. Constables and detectives on the case offered no comment at this time, but sources have told reporters that dental records of Mr Deeley are being compared to the bite marks on both victims.

Despite the rise in violence in recent weeks, residents of the town are no stranger to horrific crimes. Many have expressed concern that this may be the work of a copycat of John Haigh, the Acid Bath Murderer. Haigh was executed on 10 August 1949 after being convicted of six terrifying murders. Haigh was notorious for his use of concentrated sulphuric acid to dispose of the bodies of his victims.

‘We are shocked and scared. Who would do something like this to a woman as sweet as Helen?’ Mrs Christopher Eades noted. ‘Helen was always such a giving woman. Always volunteering and active in the church. I just don’t understand.’

Detectives are still investigating the area at Ifield to search for any other clues. The person who discovered the shoe that led to the uncovering of Helen Deeley’s body remains anonymous but is being thoroughly questioned at this time.

Women are delicate and weak creatures who are delicious to prey upon. But they aren’t imbecilic, not by a longshot. And a woman always has a way of knowing when something is terribly wrong with the one she climbs into bed with. At least that is what I’ve come to believe.

Helen Deeley was no exception. Sweet and godly like the newspaper article says. She didn’t deserve to be cheated on by her scoundrel of a husband. And she knew it.

They always know it, subconsciously at least.

Mr Deeley deserves to die for his disgusting behaviour. But I won’t deviate from my plan. I won’t abandon the list. I will stay focused because I’m in the middle of it now. I’ve selected my chosen ones. Everyone else would just be a distraction. I can’t afford to be distracted.

Besides, I can’t be too livid with the bloke because his digressions left the perfect opening. When a woman is riddled with doubt, she’ll do anything to get to the bottom of it and set her perfect view of her life right again.

A letter strategically sent. A meeting place when John was going to be ‘late at work’. The perfect, secluded spot at Ifield – and an easy place to rid the world of the evidence. After I made my mark, of course. And after I’d planted the shoe. After all, it wouldn’t be any fun if she was never found, and those moronic bobbies are so incapable. The newspaper uses words like investigation and thorough, but I know the truth. They’ll never figure it out. They’re too easily distracted, so very easily thrown off the case. Bloody hell, I had to lead them to the body. Yet they think they’ll catch me? They have no idea. Wrapped up in dental records of the husband, the affair, of course, not painting him in a good light. They’ll be focused on him for so long that they’ll forget there is even another possibility.

I shake my head, smiling at their idiocy. It’s made the game easier, certainly. But sometimes I think it would all be so much more fun if they were actually smart – if it were actually challenging. What it must be like to kill in a place with real risk of being discovered …

But that’s not what this is about. This is so much, dare I say, more intricately beautiful? This dance between strong and weak.

Sickly boy. Frail boy. Weak boy.

Not anymore. I’m not that boy anymore. No, I’m not. I chuckle. No one has any idea, do they?

I tuck the piece of the newspaper between my front teeth, closing my eyes as I bite down. So thin, so delicate. My teeth click over it, creasing it. But I’m careful not to taint the actual words of the article. I need to preserve it, my trophy added to the collection.

Oh, Helen. Did you regret your mistakes? Did you think about everything that led you to me?

Helen hadn’t the slightest clue. The look of shock on her face when she saw me instead of the secret informant she was hoping for, the one to confirm her husband’s affair, to give her the proof that would shatter her world. But I shattered her first. Oh, did I shatter her.

It was laughable, really, the look on her face. They’re always so surprised. Someone they’ve seen countless times in town. Someone they’ve overlooked over and over. To them, I’m just the means to a necessary duty. I’m just a servant, in some ways. I’m just a nobody in West Green like I was all those years before.

But this nobody is certainly gaining infamy, even if it isn’t by name.

Helen was a little old for my taste, really. I usually like them younger, fresher. The skin is just better. Soft and supple between the teeth – it’s inviting. I savour the taste of vibrancy that seems to emanate from their skin. In truth, I’m not quite sure why Helen ended up on my list. I’d studied the women in West Green for weeks, thinking and pondering. Making the plan. Maybe it was the sadness in her eyes day in and day out. Maybe it was the fact she just seemed so lonely. Was she a pity kill? I don’t know. I’d like to think it was more than that. I’d like to think there was something more there, calling to me.

But she was the second. And not the last. There are many more steps on my path to the end. It’s a lot of work, really. Exhausting if it weren’t so energising. And, when I ask if it’s all worth it, despite the intoxicating warmth that pulses in my blood, I know she will make it worth it.

The finale. The last one. The beautiful, wily one who will be the denouement to this masterfully executed plan. I’ve already found myself lurking, watching, peering at her through the darkness. I know I should wait. I’ve got the next one to worry about. I’ve got the next one to carry out. But she’s just so beautiful. And her spark is something magnetising.

It’s okay, though. I’m not jealous. Because I know I’ll be the last one to appreciate her. And I’ll get to put that beauty on full display soon enough.

But not yet. It’s just not time yet.

I take the article reluctantly from between my teeth. I blow on the wetness, staring at the intricate pattern before I tuck away the mementos with the others and close the lid of the box.

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