Page 21 of From Hell

“And the cash flowing. It’s a gluttonous, glorious circle jerk. I hate being part of it,” I scowl.

Fiona’s face darkens for a moment. “And being on the outside is better, is it? Let me tell you, being powerless, with your nose pressed against the glass, is no way to live. Your grandfather understood that. I only wish I’d listened to him more.”

My mother hates I traded in success for morals when she never could. Marrying Dad was her mistake. They struggled to make ends meet when her family disowned her. Love wasn’t enough. Mum missed her comforts, and Dad felt that an honest reputation meant more than how much money you had in the bank. It’s no wonder they’re divorced.

I shake my head, my emotions raw. “I don’t feel the same way.”

“You did once,” she insists, her voice full of longing. “You were driven, ambitious, passionate about making a difference...” Her gaze falls to the scar on my neck, a painful reminder of our past. “Do you think I don’t understand how difficult it was for you? It’s why I moved us away—” she falters, her voice trailing off. She never likes to revisit what happened.

It was a mistake to come here. Our visits always end in an argument.

“My life before is gone,” I remind her, pushing my chair back as I rise to my feet, resentment branding like a hot iron in the center of my chest, like the gilded invitation burning a hole in my pocket. “There is no getting it back.”

9

LAINE

“Where did you leave the body?” Nola asks as she places two steaming cups of coffee followed by a plate of tempting chocolate chip cookies on the low table.

Bathed in the warm glow of afternoon sunlight streaming through painted white blinds, she perches on a canary yellow poof. It’s Nola’s turn to host our weekly check-in, in her house crowded with a mishmash of items she’s either found, been donated to, or stolen. A welcome departure from the stark cold of the church where we met and our Stronger Together sessions usually take place.

Cozier. Comfier. Less conspicuous. And God isn’t watching.

I nibble a biscuit even though I’m not hungry, to delay answering her question. It’s like she’s asking where I parked the car. We try not to share specifics, just to be there to aid and support each other with ourhealing…if you can call it that. But sometimes, the lines fuzz and blur like an old movie reel, and secrets surface and linger like dust on a lens. “In the old cemetery, behind the bluebell woods with the others.”

Nola arches a quizzical brow, delicately brushing away cookie crumbs from the corner of her mouth with her fingers. She’s eaten five in the time it’s taken me to eat half of one. “Near the London Line? Is that a good idea? Is it safe?”

It’s been two days since I took care of Henry, and his body has not been found yet. The London Line isn’t actually in London, but a disused railway that used to run right up to the city. Overgrown, edged with weeds and ragged woodland: no one goes there. The old cemetery that used to run alongside it hasn’t been used in decades. It was sold as a commercial lot after the bodies were moved and then abandoned when the company that bought it ran out of money. It’s as good as dead.

“No one goes there.”

“Except for joggers, dog walkers, and cyclists?” Nola sighs when the doorbell chimes.

Sage has arrived. It takes her a little longer to get here as Templevale, where she lives, is deep in the veins of Sacred Heart Valley, the other side of Whitechapel, the furthest away from Angelfalls, where we are now. Nola gets up and goes to let her in, so I ditch what’s left of the half-eaten cookie on the plate. I’m still not sleeping, and that’s affecting my appetite for sure. I stare at my tea, sinking into the faded floral couch Nola got at her local charity shop, while they speak in hushed voices in the hallway.

After a minute, soft-spoken Sage slips into the room, almost like a ghost herself. Her brown curly hair is dripping wet, plastered to her skin. She must have got caught in the rain.

Nola bustles in with a towel and chucks it at our friend. “Didn’t you drive?”

She shakes her head. “I got the train. Father grounded me. I’m not meant to be out.” I look at her in disbelief. Sage might be younger than us, but she’s an adult. It’s moments like these that make me wonder how, living only a town apart, we never crossed paths before. Then again, perhaps it’s fate that brought us together, considering how vastly different our lives are.

Nola, always the nurturing one, interrupts. “Tea, love?” Sage nods. She’s not a coffee lover like we are.

We wait until we’re all settled in the living room, and everyone is dry and has a hot cup of something to warm their hands on to give updates. Sage glances my way and smiles, reaching out to squeeze her hand in mine. Just sitting in Nola’s clean but cluttered front room with her sleeping cat curled on my lap, leaving its fur all over my legs, Sage’s hand in mine, coaxes the darkest parts of myself out into the open. Terrible things I’ve done that I never thought would see the light of day.

The girls found me when I was at my lowest. After the attack, I stopped caring. I dropped out of med school and got a job at a local pub on weekends. That’s when the letters started coming, and I met Nola and Sage, and everything changed.

We first met online at a group therapy charity called Stronger Together and later in person at one of the outreach meetings.

Stronger Together.My old self would have laughed at the thought of going to group meetings. It was Nola who urged us to meet in real life and put faces to messenger names. After the first meeting, we went for a drink, and then another, and another, which led to a tearful hug and the pact.

A year ago, we each agreed to hunt the monsters who hurt us because the police had done fuck all. It was Sage’s idea to take back control. Burying each other’s most treasured possessions, only getting our own one back when we’re fully healed, whatever the cost. It might have started as a joke, and then a healing ritual, but the pact took a life of its own, blossoming into full-fledged revenge. And since I couldn’t find my killer, I was drawn to hunt other men who pretended not to be monsters.

Sure, the guilt ate away at me for days after my first…kill. The second corroded my heart. I’m still waiting to see what joys the third brings because whenever I close my eyes…

I still see them dying.

Smell their blood on my hands.