Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
ELLIE
Flopping back on the bed, I close my eyes. The TV's din makes my head ache, but I don’t have the motivation to get up and turn it off.
I’m just off the phone with Freddie, who’s filled me in about his weekend, and I’m feeling pretty guilty for being annoyed at him. He isn’t shutting me out; he’s been dealing with dead fucking bodies. And the police.
I’ve invited him round on Friday to chat it over, as he’s a little reluctant to do so over the phone. He sounds exhausted. And worried.
Clutching my phone in hand, I lay there for a long time, TV blaring and my head thumping.
What’s going on with everything around me?
First Sam. Then I find out my foster brother is all up in my best friend. Then they start being weird as fuck and getting their asses handed to them. Then Freddie gets sent to a fucking crime scene and questioned by the police.
Secrets.
Lies.
I’m sick of it all.
And worried about them. It’s like this infection has pricked and is spreading through everyone I know.
Mum’s downstairs rattling around, and I’m half tempted to spill it all to her and then curl up in her lap like I used to as a teen when the world felt too crazy. Lord, I had no idea.
Dropping my phone on the bedside table, I roll onto my side and watch the TV. The show is supposed to be funny, but I feel numb. Like I’ve gone and used up too much of it worrying about everyone else.
Maybe I just need a jolly good wank to feel something.
I don’t get the chance to reach for my little vibrating pal. A headline flashes on the screen as the news comes on.
Bodies found.
Suspected to be involved in the case where local men have disappeared or been murdered.
Sitting, I focus on the screen as the newsreader runs through the story.
There isn’t much information, but I know from what Freddie told me that this is the scene he went to.
Yet, there’s no mention of the child's body.
Just two men in their sixties. Brothers.
A judge and a minister. Made out to be upstanding members of society. Not according to the photos.
The newsreader looks excited, holding her fingers to her ear for a moment.
‘I’ve been informed that there is a photo of a person the police are interested in talking to.’
She looks down as a photo appears on the screen.
It’s terrible quality. A hooded figure in black with a pinkish mask.
There’s something dark around the eyes, but it’s difficult to make out what.
There's a long strand of blonde hair escaping from the hood, but that’s not what makes my breath catch.
In the hollow below the mask, unless I’m very much mistaken, is a heart-shaped necklace.
One that looks identical to the one Kat so rarely takes off.
It can’t be.
It fucking can’t be.
I scramble to find the remote and freeze the frame, getting so close I can see individual pixels.
No.
Kat.
What the fuck have you done?
There’s a number on the screen to call if anyone thinks they know who this is. I feel sick to my stomach.
It’s blurry, and she’s got her face covered, but I have no doubt that it’s my best friend who’s wanted in connection with a double homicide.
A double homicide they are linking to the other killings.
To Sam’s disappearance.
Heat flushes my face as I brace against the dresser, a wave of nausea washing over me.
Reaching up, I drag my fingers across the screen, tracing the strand of blonde. The same hair I’ve curled a thousand times as we get ready to go out. This woman I shared a home with. I share my foster brother with.
Fuck, Liam. Does he know?
Scrambling for my phone, I scroll to his name before stopping. It was written all over their faces yesterday. He knows.
Shit, he’s probably helping her.
But why?
Anger clashes with despair as I wrestle with this horrific knowledge, going between calling the police, calling Freddie, or keeping my mouth shut.
It’s Kat. My Kat.
The woman who cries at adverts with cute old folks and rescues fat cats and silly little dogs. Who collects heart-shaped rocks because a boy gave her one at eight. Who held my hand through those dark nights when Sam disappeared.
It can’t be her.
She’s not a killer.
She can’t be.
The pressure in my skull is blinding, so I roll onto the bed and pull the covers over me. My only answer is to scrunch into a ball and do nothing.
I can’t tell Freddie without him reporting it.
I can’t tell Kat, in case she is some sort of psycho who will chop my dick off too. Not that I have a dick, but I’m partial to my flaps too.
So I cocoon. Shut myself off from the world until I can get my head around everything.
It’s not every day you find out your best friend might be a serial killer.