Page 14 of The Unforgiven

So this would be the third kill. The third time a life was taken. Arguably fourth, if we were being metaphorical.

The handle of the knife felt solid and competent, the hand around it confident. Practicing what to do had been easy, perfected over the years, the idea of using it as desired just an idea until he managed to coax the words out so they made sense, and then formed a plan and then made it seem reasonable and rational and not the ramblings of someone who had an identifiable condition as categorised in the DSM-5-TR, or whatever edition they were up to.

It was all nonsense; he said so. Humans thought they needed to categorise everything in order to understand it, when what they needed to do was open their minds.

Like the police.

He said they wouldn’t solve the murders. That there was no way they’d work it out. Trusting him was proven, that’d been noted over the years. There’d been acceptance, understanding,maybe reliance although that wasn’t the norm for either of them.

He helped the voices, naming them, developing acceptance that they were a manifestation of trauma, trauma that was Dolly’s fault – and the others.

All of them.

They knew what they were doing. And they laughed. The memories of them laughing would never fade, no matter what barriers or breathing techniques or medication were used.

It’d been planned years ago, when intelligence gathered showed what they were up to, hashtag, living their best lives and all those achievements unlocked, smiling photographs showing perfect houses and Christmas trees and reunions.

Not that bloody perfect.

Chelsea’s husband would be glad she was dead. Her kids were better off with him – that had already been checked out because the kids couldn’t help that they’d been born to an evil, calculating person. They wouldn’t even know what’d happened.

Number three was next. All this talk about the Pusher coming back was exactly what was needed to help everyone stay incognito.

The police were too short-sighted to spot a connection that was barely there anyway. Might as well play into what the newspapers and online blogs were saying.

Brooke would be left in water too, which was ironic because she’d hated getting wet. She’d almost cried once when it started raining and her hair started to go frizzy, so this would serve her right.

Shame she wouldn’t actually be able to see it. She’d have cried even more.

Serve her right.

Brooke had been another bitch. Maybe not as bad as Chelsea but she hadn’t stopped it. She hadn’t said something or been a better friend. She’d laughed.

Serve her right.

The hand around the handle of the knife tightened. Readying itself.

Whose fault was it if it had a mind of its own?

It served her right anyway.

It would serve her right.

Anyone could see that.

Chapter Seven

There could’ve been an atmosphere of irritation in the office, but instead the room was filled with anticipation, the sort of rush of adrenaline that only new information capable of hammering the chinks into a case could bring.

It was early, just past seven am, and some of those who were meant to be off today had been called in.

“Looks like I’m missing church this morning.” Vinny looked around the room, arms folded.

“Like you’ve been in a church any time recently,” I had the importunacy to be standing next to him, leaning back against a desk near the front. Wrigley was having a hushed conversation with Cattrick, pointing to something on a piece of paper that was probably the email I’d been sent.

I’d met him here forty-five minutes after calling him, Pam thankfully still asleep. Nick had met us half an hour later, already up with a colicky baby. He seemed grateful for the escape, especially when Wrigley told him to grab an hour’s sleep in one of the meeting rooms where there was a couch.

“I’m very holy, me.” Vinny straightened his collar. “Or that’s what you need to tell my mother, if you ever meet her.”