AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Boss?” she calls. “Marsh wants you back at the nick.”
Adam sighs. Time to leave. He walks out of the bedroom, closing the door gently behind him.
Death, dying, so close at every turn. And nobody he can save.
CHAPTER
33
IT TAKES A multiton truck on Romilly’s inside lane to jolt her back to reality. It honks loudly, making her swerve as she swears, adrenaline coursing in her veins. She carefully pulls into the slow lane.
She wants to call Adam, find out what’s going on, but she knows she can’t. She’s had two missed calls from Phil but ignores them; she needs to keep the line clear.
She doesn’t have many people in her life nowadays. Not many friends she trusts. She resolved early on to be honest about her father. People always found out anyway, so best to quickly weed out the ones that couldn’t cope. It was the main reason she’d kept her name: if you love me, knowing who I am, then you love me.
Most people don’t. Daughter of a serial killer. She knows the questions it raises. She’s asked them all herself.
Is she like him? She has the same dark eyes, the same nose and mouth. She is clever, analytical, with a head for science. But she can also be stubborn, with a temper that comes on fast and loud. She’ll feel her muscles tense, her teeth clench so hard she feels they will shatter, and she’ll wonder, is this the side of her that’s like him?
That could kill?
She’s seen the looks, heard the whispers. Nature versus nurture. Did Elijah Cole kill because of something in his DNA, or had it been the way he’d been brought up? Her father had never talked about his upbringing, and she’d never met her grandparents. They’d all died before she was born. Had something happened when he was young? Had he been dropped on his head, abused, belittled, like so many serial killers before him?
She’d read the biographies, trying to find the truth among the speculation and lies. Therapy had gone a long way to undo the damage, working her way through counselor after counselor until she found Dr. Jones. The woman who seems to understand her. Who taught her to trust again.
To love.
When her father was arrested, she’d spent the next week in a blur. Interviews with the police, shunted around from responsible adult to responsible adult. People supposedly there to make sure her well-being was respected, but just as curious and nosy as the one before. Social services put her in a group home for a few nights. A strange bed in a noisy room. Then to a foster home.
Nobody wanted to adopt the daughter of a killer. The slightest indiscretion and she was moved on. Place to place, never staying more than six months. Nobody tells you what to do; there is no guidebook for how to be the daughter of a serial killer. An underground community got in touch—relatives of murderers—but she found them strange. They were angry, shocked, confused, claiming that they’d always seen the psychopath seething under the surface. But Romilly—she’d never had a clue.
She was eager to please, to prove everyone wrong. She did her best: she finished school, A levels, applied to university. Her teenage years were dull, uneventful. She went to med school, went out with a few men, but no one she got close to. She didn’t dare.
And then she met Adam.
Her phone rings, making her jump again. She answers it quickly.
“You were right,” Adam says, his voice dull. “We went to the house.”
Her breath catches. Hope blossoms, only to be shattered quickly by Adam’s words.
“She’s not here,” he says. “But she was.”
Romilly struggles to keep her car in lane, and she’s beeped at again. “When? How?”
“We missed them. I’m sorry, Milly. I should have listened to you.” A long pause. “He had her in the outhouse.”
“Oh, Christ. Listen, Adam—”
“I’ve got to go. I wanted to let you know,” he says quickly, and hangs up.
The news sinks in slowly as she drives the rest of the way home. She knew it. She did. But … But … How can Elijah be involved? He’s in prison, cut off from the world. She can’t comprehend how this could be happening. How can he be talking to someone? Aren’t there systems and processes to stop this sort of thing?
She manages to get back without any further incidents, parking her car in her drive, surprised to see Phil’s next to it. She puts her key in the lock, and he’s standing there, waiting.
“Romilly! Where have you been?”
“Why aren’t you at work?” She shakes off his attempts at a hug, taking off her coat and hanging it up.
