Page 10 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

My lips are sealed and a promise is true:

I won’t break my word; my word to you.

FEbrUARY

Two years ago

He’d moved her with ease to begin with, her limp body sliding off the bed onto the floor, then he’d pulled her across the carpet like a huge slithering snake, through the door to the landing. But then the adrenaline waned, and his muscles ached with the exertion; he’d had to stop and rest.

Now, sweat dripped into his eyes. He swiped the back of his hand roughly across his forehead, muttering under his breath.

‘Fucking bitch.’

After a few moments’ break, he grabbed hold of her again, dragging her by her arms to the stairs, his breath heaving with the effort.

Backwards, he took a few steps down, then yanked on her arms so that she followed.

While her head remained off the ground, her legs banged against the wooden treads as he descended them.

At the bottom he let her go, her body collapsing in a heap, and he leaned up against the wall to recover his breath.

He was fit, but he hadn’t anticipated the true strength he’d need to carry this out.

It would get easier, he told himself.

By the time he was ready for her , he’d be so well-practised he’d be able to do it in his sleep.

And with less conscience than now.

Her skin was pale like porcelain, and appeared smooth like it too.

He couldn’t help himself; he removed his glove and, bending forward and down, he ran a fingertip over her cheek.

So soft. Warmth still clinging to it. It would take around twelve hours before it cooled, but rigor mortis would start after three hours, so he had to get a move on; he would struggle to get her into the right pose once that happened.

Finally in the lounge, he hauled her onto the sofa and laid her down on her side.

Standing back, he examined the scene. He shook his head and went back to her, lifting one leg and angling it so her thighs were open.

Then he draped one arm so it hung close to the carpeted floor.

That was better. Taking the kit from the table where he’d left it when he was upstairs dealing with her, he removed the needle and cotton.

After some roughly laid stitches, he stepped back and whispered, ‘My lips are sealed and a promise is true: I won’t break my word; my word to you.’

He ducked down and grabbed one of the other props he’d brought.

He wrapped her fingers around the neck of the wine bottle and pressed them into the glass to keep them in place.

Here, the rigor mortis would come in useful.

But it didn’t really matter if the bottle dropped from her dead grasp, because that would add to the authenticity.

She might not ever get to see his handiwork, but it was important to him to be true to the memories.

He took the front page of one of today’s newspapers and laid it on the arm of the sofa.

He was pleased with his work, but it needed one final touch.

Every serial killer had to start with one murder. And every serial killer needed a calling card.