Page 97 of To All the Men I’ve Killed Before

I have to answer it. No one hammering that loudly is going to leave in a hurry.

Am I ever going to be able to murder this man without someone interrupting me?

‘I’ll be right back,’ I tell Aidan as I put a fresh strip of duct tape over his mouth. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

I take the kettlebell up into the kitchen with me and lock the cellar. Whoever is at the door is still hammering and my heart joins in.

I take a deep breath, count to five and pad across the floor.

53

Kitty and Antoinette’s Airbnb, West Hollywood, Los Angeles

It’s probably the police.

And they’re here to tell me they’ve found Antoinette.

Or what’s left of her.

There’s a weird mix of fear and fury fighting for dominance in my blood.

Fear seems to be winning.

I don’t want to open the door.

I don’t want to know what’s behind it.

‘Kitty. Open up!’

It’s a man’s voice and I wonder for a second if I’m still asleep because I must be dreaming. Surely this isn’t real because that voice sounded just like …

‘It’s me. Charlie.’

Charlie.

I’m racing to the door now.

I yank it open, half expecting there to be no one there at all. Some sort of aural hallucination brought on by my stress and lack of sleep.

But it’s not.

He’s here.

He’s really here.

He’s standing there, staring at me – a bit dishevelled – a battered leather holdall I recognise at his feet.

I want to pinch him just to make sure, but I think that might be a bit weird. I want to throw myself into his arms and inhale him but that might also be a bit strange considering the last time I saw him he was walking away from me, away from us.

‘Charlie,’ I say and I’m amazed I can even find words. He’s every bit as perfect as I remember him. I wondered if maybe I’d been idealising him in my mind since we broke up, but that’s not the case. He still has that sandy-brown hair that I want to run my fingers through and grab. He still has that smattering of stubble that I find irresistible. He still has that dimple that I want to stick my finger in.

‘Hi, Kits,’ he says, a hint of a smile playing on those lips. The lips that used to kiss me goodnight and then kiss me awake again. That used to trail down my thighs until I thought I’d scream.

The lips that used to say my name and make it sound like the most beautiful word that’s ever been spoken.

That used to tell me they loved me.

‘What are you doing here?’