Page 2 of From Hell

But I’m not his prey anymore; I’m his retribution.

And I’m going to make him pay.

* * *

My hand clampsaround my phone in my coat pocket. Pulling it out, I scroll through my contacts list, my heart beating wildly and echoing loudly in my ears, until I get to N—Nola’s number. It stares back at me, daring me to call it. She gave it to me in case I changed my mind… if life ever became too much after what happened.

Well, it became too much.

On the table is his last letter, crumpled from my hands and wet with angry tears. The server in the café is on her knees, picking up the remnants of my coffee cup that I hurled angrily against the wall. Occasionally, she gives me a shitty look, even though I apologized several times and offered to pay the cost of a replacement mug.

At least they haven’t kicked me out yet.

Without another doubt, I press the dial button and hold the receiver to my ear.

“Hello,” Nola pants down the line, sounding out of breath. There’s a loud noise in the background, like heavy machinery. It jolts me for a second. I don’t actually know what Nola does for a living. She never divulged the information, and I never asked. I don’t even know her last name.

My voice falters, unable to form the words. Is bringing a stranger into this the best thing to do?

“Laine? Is that you?”

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I bring myself back to the world of the living. Fuck it. You only live once, and those girls he slaughtered didn’t even get to do that. I let out a breath. “Yes, it’s me. I’m in.”

There’s a long pause, enough to make me think she’s hung up. And then, “Sage didn’t think you’d have the balls.”

I grit my teeth, offended by her admission. Sage is a twig of a girl. During our group talks at Stronger Together, I always thought it would take just one powerful gust of wind to snap her in half. Nola was the one I would never want to meet in a dark alley. It’s her presence, and her scars if I’m honest. Not her missing eye—though the first time I saw Nola in the churchyard before my very first meeting, without an eyepatch, she scared the bejesus out of me. Now it’s just part of who she is. “Just tell me where we’re meeting.”

“Tonight, at the old Bermondsey Brewery.”

The other side of town. “I’ll be there.”

“As long as you know if you turn up, there’s no going back.”

My stomach twists. Sorrow and regret, mixed with anticipation, slash at my insides, cutting me open as the memories wash over me.

“I know,” I say. Inside my head, I silently vow to see this through to the end. There’s no going back. I’ll bury the man who hurt me and the ones who murdered those girls, and send them back to fucking Hell.

I just can’t do it alone.

1

LAINE

Isee him appear at the crowded bar entrance out of the corner of my eye—immaculate hair, shark-white teeth, eyes darker than his blazer. His jaw tightens, and his body stiffens when he looks around. From his face, he hates the establishment; it’s not his usual members-only club. It’s too common. Too crowded.

I suggestedwemeet here. Not me, per se. It was easy enough to get him to do anything I wanted while pretending to be a runway model on Tinder looking for a hookup. He has no idea who I am or that he’s being catfished.

I stay hidden as he pushes inside, butting between bodies. When he nears the bar, I pick my bag up off the seat next to me to settle it on the back of my bar chair, and then I angle myself sideways, nose stuck in my book as I casually make room for him. He takes the bait and parks himself beside me.

A thrill sparks in the base of my stomach as I try to focus on the words in the paperback I picked up earlier in the bookstore across the road. Two men of the five I’m hunting are dead. This will be the third. I’m nearly halfway there.

The first time was a fluke. The second time was pure luck. This time, I’ve made better choices. I’m prepared. I’m getting better. Stronger. Faster. I’m getting confident, but I can’t let that lull me into a false sense of security. Luck does, however, come in threes.

Three for a girl.Third time lucky.Three is the sacred number.

His manicured hand, adorned with a university signet ring on his pinkie finger, rests on the wood surface, tapping irritatingly as he hollers at the bartender. His suffocatingly expensive cologne reeks of cinnamon and polished leather, and his outfit—tailored jacket, pressed chinos, and glittery wristwatch—screams disgustingly rich. I know firsthand how wealthy he is and how far his family’s reach goes, so far as having ties with London’s crime families. It’s why he’s Scotland Yard’s primary suspect in several rapes and missing persons investigations, yet walks around free as a bird. The police can’t get near him, let alone touch him.

My stomach tightens as I turn the page and finish my drink while he gestures futilely at the bartender. Earlier, I slipped each staff member a twenty with a picture of him, asking them nicely not to serve my friend’s abusive ex if he came in.