Page 14 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

Her voice was so nice and soothing that I guess I just sort of slipped into the cosy armchair in the office and that’s how I’m still sitting here, talking about my dad.

‘It’s often hard to find closure when no body has been found,’ Alex is saying.

And no body will ever be found.

It can’t when it’s been fed through the mincers at a meat-processing plant.

‘But you’re feeling residual guilt about the domestic violence you witnessed? Again that’s a standard trauma response when a child feels like they failed to save the parent experiencing the violence.’

A mental image of my mother, Carmella, shaving parts of Ben Pemberton’s corpse in preparation for feeding him to her pigs pops into my head.

She really doesn’t need me to save her.

‘I think you need to work on self-forgiveness, Doris,’ Alex says. ‘You put too much responsibility on yourself and then get cross at yourself when you can’t live up to your own expectations.’

I think she might have a point.

Thirty minutes later and I’m on my way back to the Chateau, ready to give Antoinette a lesson in basic fucking research. But also with an appointment for next week at the same time.

Except, when I get back, Antoinette already has a surprise for me.

I stop in my tracks when I see her sitting casually on the sofa, iPad on her lap, resting her feet on the naked torso of a man.

The dismembered naked torso of a man.

It’s not just any man.

Those ridiculous tribal tattoos … she’s using Ron Wilde’s dismembered torso as a fucking footstool.

8

Bungalow three, Chateau Marmont, West Hollywood, Los Angeles

Fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

There is a dead A-list movie star in our hotel room.

There is a dead A-list movie star in our hotel room.

There is a dead A-list movie star in our hotel room and my sister has her feet up on his torso like this is an everyday occurrence.

‘Antoinette! What the fuck?’

She looks up at me, a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. ‘Hey, sis.’

I stare at her, assuming she’s going to explain what the actual fuck has gone on here, but she turns back to her iPad. I drop my bag and march over to her.

‘That’s Ron Wilde,’ I say, pointing at the torso.

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Some of him.’

I lean closer to the torso. She’s done a good job actually. The cuts are clean. Really clean. Almost like …

‘Did you use a chainsaw?’

She grins up at me. ‘Yes! Aren’t they great?’