Page 12 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

It’s still dark when the vibration beneath my pillow stirs me.

Groggily, I reach a hand under it and silence the alarm.

It’s not as though I need the wake-up call – the night has been long and almost entirely devoid of sleep.

Even the hypnotic sound of the waves has been no match for the thoughts crashing around in my mind.

The bedroom is oppressive; the darkness is not yet diluted by the sun.

It’s four-thirty, an hour before sunrise.

Ross used to think I was mad when we first moved here and I’d regularly get up, pull a pair of joggers over my pyjamas and take a travel mug filled with coffee to Ness Cove Beach to sit on the wall and watch the sun slowly peep up over the water. Peace like that is hard to find.

He came with me a few times, and we snuggled together safe and warm in each other’s arms as we enjoyed the stunning colours and revelled in how wonderful the natural world was.

After last night, if I were to suggest he join me for sunup now, Ross would definitely decline the offer.

I turn my face towards his. Soft, snuffly breaths escape his pursed lips and I lean closer, touch mine against his in the lightest of kisses.

He’s a heavy sleeper and even a full-on snog wouldn’t disturb him, but I daren’t risk it now.

I creep out of our bedroom into the spare room, where I laid out my clothes before going to bed.

I quickly dress and go downstairs to make up a flask of coffee.

I grab the lunchbox I packed last night and stuff it, along with everything else I’ll need, into my old backpack.

Tiptoeing unnecessarily, I make my way to the front door and open it a crack, then pause, my heart thumping.

Will Henry be somewhere outside watching the house?

Waiting for me to make my move? My fingers tighten around the handle until they lock, as though they’re attempting to stop me leaving.

‘Don’t be so ridiculous.’ My whispered words sound loud in the dark, quiet hall.

A squirming sense of dread pushes through my veins; the word stay repeats itself inside my mind.

I could be making a huge mistake by following Henry’s clue, yet the risk of not following it is significant, too. I have no choice, and he knows it.

I open the door fully, checking up and down the road.

There’s no one about that I can see. No strange cars parked nearby with silhouetted figures inside them, keeping watch.

A surge of unidentifiable emotion fills my stomach and stops me in my tracks.

I think it’s a mix of relief and disappointment.

I’m grateful I’m not being observed by Henry, but I would’ve thought the police – DI Walker – would be keen to make sure I was safe.

Seeing as they were the ones who alerted me to the danger I might be in, that I might be the next victim.

DI Walker was quick to reassure Ross that he’d post a police officer outside if possible, but clearly I’m not worthy of the resources.

Perhaps they want me to be the next victim. One way of flushing Henry out is to make me the bait.

I shudder, but before I can allow my negative thoughts to sabotage my plan, I step outside.

A narrow strip of light is visible on the horizon, the inky sky smudging into a deep blue.

With a gulp of fresh morning air, I take the few steps to the pavement and climb into my car.

Not allowing myself to hesitate any more than I already have, I start the engine and move slowly off, beginning the three-hour drive to my past.

Nerves consume me as the miles on the road signs become single figures, and the countdown is really on.

Nine miles. Five miles. Three miles. The roads are now vaguely recognisable, and my hands begin to slip on the steering wheel.

I pull over on a quiet roadside, run my palms down my trousers and get out to stretch my legs.

Or that’s what I tell myself I’m doing, but really I know it’s because I want to prolong the inevitable.

The last time I saw Finley Hall I swore I’d never get within spitting distance again.

Now, I’m allowing Henry to force me back there.

It’s why he chose it, no doubt. He wants to make me uncomfortable.

Wants me to suffer; make me as vulnerable as possible.

Wondering what else he has in store is another reason to put off going there.

A voice that sounds very much like DI Walker’s screams inside my head:

A woman’s life hangs in the balance.

A woman’s life is in your hands.

Potentially my own.

‘Fuck.’ I get back in the car, pull away from the kerb, and keep my foot to the pedal, even though I’ve got every alarm bell imaginable ricocheting around my skull telling me to stop the car, turn around and go home.

The female voice from my satnav calmly instructs me to make turns, but I don’t need her now – muscle memory has taken over, despite it being seventeen years since I was last here and I didn’t drive then.

I guess some things are imprinted on the brain.

My mouth waters as I approach the final corner, nausea threatening.

When I turn, the upstairs of the home will be visible above the high wall. God, what am I doing?

And there it is. The old, brown-brick building looms ahead.

A large mass, heavy and dragging, sits in my lower abdomen as I steer into the driveway. The posts look the same as they did, but the wrought iron gates are different; they no longer have the words FINLEY HALL on them. It’s now The Grange – an old people’s residential home.

As I approach, my heart in my mouth, I notice a newer building set to one side, part-obscured by trees.

It looks like a summer house, but I imagine it’s where the caretaker lives.

I crane my neck to see inside as I pass, half expecting someone to come out and stand in my way; stop me, ask who I am and why I’m here.

Am I visiting a relative? I should get a cover story ready before I try and gain access – I can’t very well say, ‘I used to live here as a child, so please can I come and look around?’ I don’t want to leave such a clear trail.

If I had DI Walker with me, of course, gaining entry would take a simple flash of the badge, no questions asked.

Gravel crunches as I manoeuvre to the signposted car park.

Back when my brother and I were brought here, this area was all laid to grass; there was only the sweeping driveway and space for about five cars right outside the main building.

Not many visitors came to Finley Hall. If it were possible to sneak around the side of the building to reach the back gardens, I could perhaps bypass the questions and instead get to where I need to be without drawing unwanted attention.

The high walls and padlocked side gate prevent that option, though, and I can’t see a handy ladder anywhere.

I run over my story again in my head. My legs are wobbly as I make my way to the entrance.

The large, black wooden doors that once brought a sense of dread have been replaced by modern, glass, automatic ones.

An intercom is screwed onto the wall to their right.

Great. What if I can’t even make it past the threshold?

I’m surprised now that I was even able to enter the gates.

I turn back to see them still wide open, another vehicle slowly driving through.

Perhaps they are left that way during visiting hours.

With my finger hovering over the buzzer, I wonder if it would be a better idea to wait for whoever is in that car to park up. I could sneak in with them.

A voice erupts from the speaker, making me jump out of my skin. ‘Good morning. Who are you here to visit?’

Shit. Can’t very well wait now. ‘Oh, hi.’ I bend down closer to the intercom, and my voice is breathy with nerves.

‘I didn’t make an appointment. I know it’s early, but I’m only in the area today and was hoping I could …

’ My mind blanks, my rehearsed story refusing to come to me now I need it.

I clear my throat to give me time to think.

Was I going to say that I hoped to look around?

Or to speak to someone about getting my mum on the waiting list?

Whatever I say, I suddenly realise that if they ask for specific details, I’ll be flummoxed.

‘The open day has come and gone, I’m afraid,’ the female voice says, pre-empting my request. I relax a bit, thankful she’s given me a starting point. She sounds pleasant, her tone soft, so maybe she’ll take pity on me.

‘Oh, my timing is always so bad. I knew it would be a long shot but I thought I’d try my luck while I was visiting Mum.

’ I’m feeling more confident now, and the words come more easily.

I hear an intake of breath, the woman readying herself to give me the final brush-off.

‘You see, my dad recently passed, and she’s been so lonely.

With me living in Devon and all, I haven’t been able to get the time off work until today. ’

‘I’m sorry for your loss. Maybe—’

‘Never mind, I understand. Do you happen to know of another residential home in the area? This is the only one that was recommended to me.’

There’s a pause, then some rustling. I hear muffled speaking; she must’ve covered the microphone.

I wait, willing her to let me in. The car that drove in passes by – the middle-aged man, smart, alone, gives me a fleeting look and carries on.

He doesn’t strike me as someone who’d be up for helping me gain access.

‘I can get one of our carers to give you a very brief tour,’ the voice says. ‘But I’m afraid the manager isn’t available to discuss packages—’

‘That’s really good of you,’ I say, quickly. ‘Thank you so much, I appreciate your help.’

And the door whooshes open. I experience a thrill of triumph, before I remember what I’m doing here and it turns to dread.