Anne
Every time I went into my studio, it felt as if I was being watched. It was the strangest sensation, and I considered whether this was simply paranoia, but I couldn’t shake the feeling no matter how I tried to justify it mentally.
Perhaps it was daddy dearest and Owen’s ghosts.
I cackled at the thought and sighed in happiness. I remembered being covered in warm blood. It was my baptism into a new life. And all the depravity that came after was a cross between unmitigated rage and cold calm.
The doorbell pulled me back to the present.
When I opened the door, I knew they weren’t canvassing the area. They had an air of righteousness and authority.
Pigs.
“Anne Selbourne?” the older one asked.
He was a drinker. The lines around his mouth and eyes made him look older. Possibly violent. I wondered what he got up to behind closed doors—at home, and at work.
“Who wants to know?” I asked, crossing my arms and leaning against the doorframe.
One of them pulled out a warrant card.
Official pigs.
Did I slip up?
“Were you with Gareth Richmond last Friday?”
I frowned at them. This was about Gareth.
“What if I was?”
“When did you last see him?”
“Why are you asking me about a hookup?”
“Why can’t you give a straight answer?” the older one snapped.
Dark circles under his eyes. I glanced lower. No wedding ring.
“Why are you taking your failed marriage out on me?”
His eyes widened, and he took a step forward, but his colleague pulled him back.
“Is that why she left?” I sneered. “Enjoy being a wife beater?”
His colleague stepped between us.
“Gareth has been missing since Sunday,” he said.
I nodded.
“We met at a local pub. Fucked in a graveyard and parted ways,” I said, leaning around him just in time to catch the older detective’s disgust. “Never saw him again.”
“That’s what you say,” he muttered, pacing behind his colleague.
“If you did your job and pulled the doorbell footage from the street, you’d see my car arrive on Saturday. I haven’t used it since.”
“What were you doing in Moorbeck?”
“I’m an artist. I go where my muse takes me. I didn’t know Garrett until he approached me in the pub.”
“His name is Gareth. He has a wife and a three-month-old son,” the arsehole said.
“Okay, and?”
“You haven’t heard from him since Friday?” the other one asked.
I shook my head.
“It was a one-off. We exchanged numbers, but neither of us reached out.”
“Okay, thanks for your time.”
“You’re welcome. I hope you find Garrett,” I said, glancing at the angry arsehole.
I closed the door. It was Tuesday.
Where did Gareth go? Who was in my studio? It was one coincidence too many for my liking.
Had someone made me in Moorbeck?
No—but I hadn’t harmed him. I’d had a two-week plan mapped out to lure him into my well-prepared trap.
Then there were the knives. I’d looked them up—high-carbon Japanese steel. Expensive and razor sharp. I grudgingly appreciated them.
But this?
This was exposure.
I pulled my phone out and began looking at home security systems.
?? ?? ??
The blank canvas mocked me. I glared at it, but nothing changed.
Blank.
My mind had never been blank before.
The new security system would be fitted over the weekend. The sales team had assured me it wouldn’t take longer than a day to install.
I squinted.
No difference.
I turned and grabbed the palette knife. With a scream, I slashed the canvas right down the middle.
“Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.” I stabbed it again and again.
I tossed the knife on the table and hurled the canvas and easel to the floor. It crashed down—wood against wood—and I felt a little better. My chest was still heaving. I rotated my head, easing the tension in my neck and shoulders, then left the studio.
I switched the light off on my way out.
Day or night. Nothing worked.
I checked the doors before going upstairs, took a long shower, and climbed into bed.
Tomorrow was a new day.
A new opportunity.
?? ?? ??
A sharp pinch on my neck woke me. I moved to grab at it and found a figure looming above me, the hall light bleeding into the bedroom behind him.
His eyes were dead.
Dark and dead.
I blinked as my eyelids tried to close against my will.
“Muvver-fuk-k-k-rr,” I tried, and felt the drool leave my lips.
My eyes closed. I began to chuckle.
I was going to kill him so fucking hard.
My head began to spin.
When I woke up. I would kill him then.
Kill. Slice. Dice. Smash.
Night night.