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Marsh stands in the doorway. Even though it’s Sunday, Marsh is smartly dressed in his usual dark suit, white shirt, thick gray hair combed back from his permanently furrowed forehead. His one concession to the weekend is his lack of tie, shirt open at the bottom of his scrawny neck. Adam is aware he’s still wearing the same clothes from Saturday night—shirt and jeans, now grubby against his skin.
“Didn’t expect you to still be here, guv.” Adam puts the pastry on his desk, then reconsiders and drops it in the bin.
“Caught up in the bureaucracy of policing. The bits I save you from. The paperwork, the bullshit.” He pauses. “Any strong leads?”
“Not yet, guv. I’ll tell you when we have.”
Marsh is aware of this. Adam’s worked for him long enough; he knows the ropes. Adam wonders why he’s really there as his boss looks out into the empty room, at the black lettering on the whiteboard, his mouth downturned. So uncharacteristically mute.
“You’ll want to speak to DCI Elliott.”
Marsh says it quietly, still facing away.
“Sorry, guv?”
Marsh turns to Adam, his face glum. “Call Cara Elliott.”
Adam frowns. “I’ve run a murder investigation before—”
“Not a multiple murder—”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Marsh looks at him sternly. “You need to be prepared. For anything this might throw at you. And Cara can do that.”
Adam scoffs. “Because it all went so well for her?”
“Exactly because of the way it went for her,” Marsh retorts. “Cara experienced firsthand how fucked up an investigation like this can get. I want you prepared. Because there is no way I want something like that happening on my turf again. You hear me?”
Adam nods.
“Call her,” he finishes, then walks off at pace down the office.
Adam watches him go, his boss’s tone smarting. “Fine,” he mutters under his breath. He’ll call DCI Cara Elliott. But only so he knows exactly what not to do when the shit hits the fan.
I WATCHED THEM ALL through their windows, those bright dioramas of happiness and joy. I watched as they cooked their dinners, kissed their wives, talked to their kids. I saw them.
Their crimes, their hypocrisy. The flaws they tried to hide.
I saw them.
But they didn’t see me.
The night is cold. The wind cuts through my clothes, making me shiver. But I need to be here. I stop outside a window. The curtains are open a fraction, and through the gap I see her there, on her sofa. She is watching television, alone, a glass of wine by her side. She seems content.
I don’t want this. I feel a pang of regret. For what’s going to happen. My ghost in the machine is real. It is my hate, my anger, my vitriol. My body doesn’t want to kill, but I know I must. For I have a purpose. For the first time in my life, I am part of something special.
A man passes me as I stand on the pavement. He gives a greeting, friendly as his dog sniffs my leg, but I recognize the look. I need to move. I walk a little way, waiting until he is gone, then turn into the alleyway at the back of her house. I know this area well. All the houses have gates. Gates that lead to back gardens and patios and a door that she does not lock. Windows that can be pushed open.
Her gate is not bolted. She has no security lights that flick on, discouraging me with their sudden glow. I walk slowly across her lawn.
I peer into her kitchen. Her plate from dinner is left on the side. The bottle of red waiting for a second glass. I can’t see into the living room, where she is sitting, but I imagine what she smells like, how she will feel. The softness of her skin, the sweetness of her perfume.
How long she will take to die.
I place my fingers on the handle of her back door. I push down slowly; it moves. It’s another sign. That she is right.
I pull the door open and listen: she laughs at something on the television.
