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W hen I got home, Tom was asleep in my favourite armchair. Part of me wondered why he kept coming back here if he wasn’t going to speak to me – his breathing was a little too heavy for real sleep – but then I didn't want to be on my own, either. But I wasn’t in the mood to convince him to talk, even if it meant keeping what I’d learned about Maggie’s death to myself. Her funeral was tomorrow, and it could wait a little longer.

As it turned out, Tom had no intention of going.

“I can’t.”

“It’s just a few hours. People will miss you if you don’t go,” I begged.

But no amount of cajoling would get him to move. I went alone, still limping slightly as I wove my way through the heavy autumn rain to the graveside. There were more people than the previous day – probably more people than I’d ever met. But Maggie had a full life, complete with friends, family and people who genuinely loved her. Jonathan hadn’t had the chance for anything like that. He’d been pulled into my darkness early on, at the expense of everything else. It was no wonder the two events were so vastly different.

A grey-haired man in a suit spoke words over Maggie’s coffin, repeatedly calling her Margaret, which she’d never been a fan of. I barely heard him. I was on edge, unable to shake the feeling of being watched by eyes hidden beneath the many umbrellas around the graveside. The wind picked up, and I didn’t stay for the wake. There were too many questions I couldn’t answer truthfully, and my guilt was inescapable – chilling me far more than the English winter.

On the way home I cranked up my car’s sound system as loud as it would go and made a deal with myself. No matter what happened this afternoon, I would go to work the next morning. This limbo could only go on for so long, and as much as working alone was weird, the distraction would be welcome. Maybe I’d force Tom to come with me – I reckoned I could dress him myself and drag him by his hair if push came to shove.

The house was filled with an unexpected warmth and spice when I stepped through the front door, shrugging off my coat. I breathed it in, shaking out my damp curls. Ginger, maybe? And something deeper, earthier – cardamom? The scent wrapped around me like a blanket, and I followed it into the kitchen.

Tom was standing over the stove, his back to me as he stirred a small pot. Several tiny bowls were arranged in a precise row on the counter beside him. A stick of cinnamon, star-shaped pods, and what looked like black peppercorns – all waiting their turn.

“You’re cooking?” I asked, my voice still rough from trying to keep my shit together.

He glanced over his shoulder and nodded. “Proper chai. Not that powdered crap we serve.” He gestured with his wooden spoon to a chair. “Sit.”

I sank down into it, grateful that he was at least animated again. Scrawl-filled notepads and empty coffee mugs were scattered across the table, so he’d clearly been researching before this odd new behaviour began.

“I didn’t know you could make it from scratch,” I said, watching him crush something between his fingers before adding it to the pot.

Tom’s shoulders tensed slightly. “Yeah. It’s my grandmother’s recipe, actually. She’d make it whenever someone…” He trailed off, focusing intently on the pot. “I was going to teach Maggie how to make it. Maybe put it on the menu.”

He tapped the spoon against the side of the pot a little too forcefully.

I didn’t say anything. The last thing I needed was to send him back into a zombie state with a careless word or look.

“She said she’d never had real chai before,” he said quietly. “It seemed like an important thing to fix.”

The liquid in the pot reached a simmer, releasing another wave of fragrance. He added what looked like loose black tea and a splash of milk.

“Shit,” he muttered after a moment, setting down the spoon. “I’m out of star anise.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I’ll pop out. I can grab some sandwiches too, while I’m at it – I dunno about you, but I’m starving.”

I nodded, my stomach grumbling in confirmation. “It smells amazing, Tom.”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “It’s medicinal.” He paused, halfway to the door. “We should still add it to the menu. The real thing. Maggie would have…” He swallowed hard. “She’d have liked that.”

Before I could respond, he grabbed his keys and slipped out, leaving me alone with the comforting aroma of spices and a grief that even his grandmother’s recipe couldn’t quite resolve.

Padding back into the living room, my tights slipping on the bare floorboards, I noticed his laptop was still switched on at the bureau. I sat down to read the article he’d left open while I waited for him to come back, unsure if I should interfere with his pan or not. The name Nicholas Murray was highlighted across the page, and I skim-read it at speed, frowning. There were some disturbing and familiar patterns to this guy’s MO. Red-headed women, ritual murder – I had to assume this was the Wyatt accomplice that Tom had mentioned.

I sat back and took a deep breath. This wasn’t what we did. Sheffield had its share of vamps, like any major city. There was a dark history here, sure – but serial killings that lasted for decades? That sounded more like a murder documentary than my life. It was well beyond anything we had experience with.

A quiet knock on the door shook me from my trance, and I slammed the laptop closed.

“Did you—?” I stopped with the door half open as I recognised the person in the doorway.

“Hello, Erin.” Adam’s smile was friendly as he stepped past me into the hall. “Could we talk?”

I closed the front door without a word and followed him into the living room. He stood by the fireplace, running a hand along the mantelpiece and gazing up at the ceiling.

So much for your self-preservation instincts, Erin.

“What a lovely home. Quite typical of the period, of course, but a well-preserved example.” He seemed perfectly at ease, despite his lack of invitation.

I didn’t know how to react. I cast my senses out toward him, but they hit a wall. There was absolutely nothing there. As far as my confusing and weird sixth sense was concerned, I was alone – and I might have convinced myself that was actually the case, if not for the exotic aroma of what I assumed to be his expensive cologne.

“What are you—” I started, but he cut across me.

“Let me correct myself – I do not require you to talk. In fact, all I require from you is a ready ear. Please, listen.”

I slumped onto the sofa. This couldn’t be happening. I should be afraid of Adam. I’d already seen for myself who he associated with – though he’d seemed like a decent enough guy when we’d met at Jolt. But as I looked up at him standing by the fireplace, the milky afternoon light highlighting the silvery shades of his blonde hair, I realised why I wasn’t panicking. It wasn’t dark yet.

“You’re not a vampire?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them .

“Of course not,” he pulled a face. “But that was an effective segue into why I’m here.”

With those few words, I understood he’d never been who I thought he was. There was no way he’d been at the coffee shop by coincidence. There’s always more to it, Erin.

Adam took a seat on the other, less comfortable sofa across from me, smoothed the creases from his shirt, and entwined his fingers together before him – watching me all the while.

“So Wyatt is a friend of yours,” I stated dully, throwing out all pretences.

“Aren’t we friends?” he asked, his eyes penetrating. I’d forgotten how attractively, intimidatingly blonde he was.

“I barely know you, Adam. I’ve met you once – which I’m guessing was no accident – and now, somehow, here you are.” My tone was as neutral as I could manage, but my frustration seeped through.

“Yes. If you recall, I did try to contact you in a less invasive manner. But since you failed to respond, my hand was forced.” He leaned forward, his voice urgent. “Izzie is here. I have no doubt you’re already aware of who she is and so on… but unfortunately, I am here to tell you she is not involved in this particular… spree.”

“Of course you’d say that,” I retorted. “You seemed pretty chummy, last time I saw you both.”

“I am no friend of Isabel Wyatt. She and I may have known each other a long time, but I would insist that barely tolerated acquaintance is a more apt description.” A sneer marred his mouth for a moment before he expertly hid it .

I shook my head. “Then why have you come to defend her? I was ready to believe she wasn’t even in the city until I saw the two of you at Maggie’s.”

“The woman from the coffee shop?” He paused in thought, and an odd look passed over his face. “Yes, that would make sense…” he spoke to himself. “But loath as I am to admit it, Izzie has nothing to do with this.”

“Who then?”

Adam sighed and crossed his legs. “Nick. Murray, or whatever he’s going by these days.”

Surprised, I was certain Adam read my expression before I could hide it. “Keep talking.”

“You see, Nick is a good friend of mine. And reformed, one might say. On a mission of redemption, if you want to be dramatic about it. But Izzie is convinced that these deaths… first your friend, and now I suppose, the waitress too—”

“Jonathan and Maggie,” I corrected.

“Yes, yes.” He dismissed my words with an impatient gesture. “Izzie believes Nick is behind it all. The style of it, you see. She’s seen it all before. And I’m inclined to agree that he may have… relapsed.”

“Right. So, I’m supposed to accept she’s identified another murderer that conveniently puts her in the clear?” I stood up, shaking my head. “I don’t know you that well, Adam, but I can tell you’re not an idiot. You must know how that sounds.”

“I understand—” he began, but before he could finish the front door swung open, wind gusting through the hallway. Seconds later, Tom stepped in, a soggy paper bag in one hand and a bent umbrella in the other.

“Hi?” he said blankly, looking between us. “Am I, erm… interrupting something?”

I glared at Adam, and he stood apologetically. “Adam was just leaving.”

He sighed loudly but didn’t protest. “Very well.”

He straightened his coat out with a little flourish. Tom stepped aside as he strode out of the still-open door, paling visibly as he watched him leave.

I unpacked the sandwiches in silence, and we ate together without speaking. I’d been avoiding difficult conversations with Tom for days, so now was the perfect time to break that and explain what was going on. But how do you start something like that? Hey, Tom – that guy who was here just now? Yeah, he’s friends with that mass-murdering vamp you were telling me about. You know, the one I didn’t believe was even here?

I chewed slowly, barely tasting the food. I was already getting the details tangled up. First, there’d been Wyatt. Now this Murray character had been thrown into the mix. And technically, I’d met Adam before everything – even Maggie’s murder. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Fuck, this was so much more than I’d signed up for – and the scariest thing? The common element in these deaths could well be me .

So how could I explain myself to Tom? The one friend I’d got left, who hadn’t been driven away yet even though the last murder had been his would-be-girlfriend. The more I dwelled on it, the more it felt like my choice to get involved in what went on in the city, way back when, might be the reason we were a target now .

I piled up the lunch plates and took them through to the kitchen. Tom cleared his throat behind me, and I jumped. I hadn’t even realised he’d followed me. Keen observation skills.

He moved to the stove, lifting the lid on his abandoned chai. The rich aroma filled the kitchen again, momentarily masking the tension in the air.

“Ruined,” he muttered, turning off the heat. “That’s the second batch this week.”

I watched him dump the contents into the sink, the spiced liquid disappearing down the drain. His movements were precise despite his obvious frustration, the way they always were when he was trying to maintain control.

“I got the star anise,” he said quietly, placing a small paper bag on the counter. He stared at it for a moment before turning to face me.

“I’ll make you a deal, Erin.”

I leaned on the worktop, facing him.

“I’ll tell you everything I know about what happened with Maggie.” His voice broke on her name. “If you explain to me why a guy who might be an accomplice in her murder was calmly sitting in your living room.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Are you accusing me of something, Tom?”

“He seemed pretty damn comfortable,” he continued. “So, I think maybe I am, yeah.”

I ignored the urge to defend myself and tried to answer calmly. “Adam was here to talk about Wyatt,” I said. “According to him , she’s not behind all this. But Wyatt thinks she knows who might be.”

His brow furrowed. “It was her, then? I was right. And she didn’t tell you this herself, she sent her errand boy…” he said humourlessly. “Who’s she accusing?”

“Nicholas Murray.”

Astonishment flickered across his face. He’d obviously not believed his own theories on that one. “No. That can’t be right. All the clues point back to her, not him. His only link was the Edinburgh thing.”

“Look, I don’t know any more about it than you do! You came back, and I didn’t let him stay to explain,” I pointed out.

Tom sank into a chair, picking at a thread in the torn knee of his jeans. Minutes passed without a word.

“Maggie was in the bath when they found her,” he said finally. “She… bled to death, or so the coroner claims. They cut her wrists straight along the radial artery. There was a kitchen knife on the floor,” he paused. “I doubt the ratio of blood to water was all that high.”

I sighed. “It wasn’t. I wanted to tell you before, but you were so…” I didn’t want to sound accusatory, so I shrugged. “I went to the mortuary yesterday before they moved her. Brad was there. He got me the file from the crime scene—”

“You could have told me,” Tom cut in.

“I wanted to. You’ve hardly been easy to talk to lately.”

He didn’t meet my eye as I continued.

“It sounds like you’ve already got most of it, anyway. But I did spot one thing. I’m guessing you haven’t seen the photos?”

He shook his head. “They wouldn’t let me up. ”

“There were flowers, Tom. Like you said.”

He shot me an inscrutable look. “What kind of flowers?” On his feet, he rummaged amongst the papers on the desk, bringing back a badly scanned image of hand-drawn flowers, with an illegible scribble underneath. “Were they like this?”

I squinted at the black-and-white image, trying to bring it into focus. The blossoms might have been similar to the ones I’d seen in the photograph, but I couldn’t say for certain given the resolution. I reached over to the coffee table for my phone to compare the two.

“I’d say so, yeah. I mean, it’s not a great drawing…”

Tom nodded, looking as though I’d confirmed something for him.

“Does it fit in with anything we know about this Murray guy?” I asked.

“No,” Tom blurted. “Well, there’s the red hair, but not really. I’ve been digging through the archives all morning while you were… gone. Their filing system’s bloody medieval, but I managed to piece some stuff together.”

I eyed him sharply, but he carried on.

“When Wyatt was setting up these fake suicides, it was around the same time she was with Murray, right? I mean, it’s difficult to say for certain because the stories are so sketchy, and the police reports haven’t been digitised very well, if at all. Their scanners suck – as you can see.” He waved the paper at me. “Their filing is worse if you can believe it.”

My face twitched into a smile, and the tense atmosphere broke all at once. I sat down beside him, and he shuffled through the papers again.

“So they were together. And she’s definitely here, in town.”

Tom nodded. “And this Adam guy believes her? He trusts her?”

“He doesn’t seem to like her very much. He said Murray was the one he was friends with, actually….” I trailed off. We finally had some solid information, despite what Tom said about the old police files. But there were a few parts that didn’t quite add up.

As far as I could tell, either the infamous Izzie Misery was killing locals and trying to cover it up by pointing the finger at her old boyfriend, or she was telling the truth and this Murray person was behind it. There was a third option, of course, but that was even more ridiculous: that it was someone else altogether. But I’d already seen Wyatt with my own eyes, and it seemed unlikely she just happened to be here when people started to turn up dead. And there was also the matter of Adam – what the hell would drive him to deliver messages for a vampire he supposedly hated? I didn’t know what he was, if anything, but I was sure it couldn’t be anything good if Murray was his bestie.

I sighed. I knew there was only one option left if I wanted some answers.

“I need to seek Solace,” I said.

Tom’s head snapped up. “Is that a good idea, right now?”

“I don’t see another way. You’ve more than exhausted the limited police data, and I’m sick of relying on shady forums for information online. She owes me one, if I remember correctly. I should be okay.”

“You really want to call that favour in, for this?”

“I’m not saving it for a rainy day,” I protested. “And there’s no way someone as perceptive and well-connected as her didn’t hear about it the moment Wyatt crossed the city limits.”

“But who’s to say she’ll have more information than that? She can’t be trusted; she’s as shady as the bloody forums are.” He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes for a moment, and I waited until he could see me again before replying.

“Have I ever said I trusted a vamp? Give me a break, Tom.”

He regarded me for a long minute. “Alright. ‘Find Solace.’ Just remember her motives aren’t the same as ours.”

“I know. But if she wants to keep her precious balance, she’ll tell me the truth,” I threatened, standing up. I stretched, admiring the yellow bruising still blotted along my arm. Tom was looking at it too.

“You’d do well to wear long sleeves, later. No sign of weakness and all that.”

“That’s the plan,” I agreed.