Page 19 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

With my mind full, I wandered for hours last night, and when I got in and was met with an incredulous look from Ross, I realised I’d forgotten the fish and chip takeaway. He rushed out to the closest one, but it’d closed. We ate baked beans on toast in silence.

Now, this morning, as Ross sits across from me, he appears distant, a sad look plastered on his face.

It’s like something has happened, something bad, that I have no memory of, and an air of mistrust hangs between us at the breakfast table.

It can’t be just because I forgot the dinner.

As I’m about to get up and leave, unable to bear the lack of conversation, Ross sighs.

I look at him, hopeful he’s going to open up to me.

‘What are your plans for today now that you’ve been suspended?’

His bluntness cuts, and I have to force myself not to bite, although I can’t help but shoot him an equally cutting smile. ‘Well, Ross – it’s a first for me, so I’m not sure.’

‘Sorry.’ He blinks a few times, as if to rid his vision of an unwanted image. ‘I understand the stress must be getting to you.’

‘Stress? Yep, that’s one word for knowing a woman’s fate is in your hands.

’ I throw down my fork; it clanks against the plate sending a blob of egg yolk across the table.

‘I have to work out the clues, help the detectives find Henry before the thirteenth of May. That’s my priority – he has to be stopped. ’

‘I agree,’ Ross says, suddenly animated. ‘But it’s their job, Anna, not yours.’

‘I’m assisting—’

‘You’re being used.’ He drains his coffee and gets up, slamming the mug on the worktop. ‘I’ve got some viewings to do with Yaz. But call me if you’re at all concerned, okay?’

‘Yes, thanks,’ I say, flatly.

‘Please don’t go chasing clues halfway around the country, either, eh?’

‘I can’t promise that, Ross.’

His face reddens. ‘Fine. Then I can’t promise I’ll be here to pick up the pieces.’

‘Fair enough.’ My nose begins to tingle, but I jam my teeth together to prevent the tears. I try to hold his gaze but his eyes won’t fix on me. He purses his lips and puts his hands to his face, rubbing his palms roughly over it.

‘Are you okay?’ I ask, moving towards him. He puts his arms around me, nuzzles his face into my neck. We stay this way for a while. I don’t want to be the first to pull away. Then I feel a dampness on my skin and my pulse skips.

‘I do love you, you know,’ he says. Then pushing himself away from me, he turns and leaves without waiting for my response.

After pottering needlessly about the kitchen, rearranging the mugs in the cupboard and wiping down the already spotless worktops, I go upstairs and jump in the shower.

Usually with the jets of hot water massaging the stress away, my mind becomes sharper.

Not this time, though. I rest my head against the silver-grey shower panel, my arms limp at my sides.

Why can’t I figure out the riddle? Where does Henry want me to go next?

And why did Ross act so strangely when he read it?

That question kept me tossing and turning last night.

I recoiled from my pale, drawn reflection this morning, shocked at how I appeared to have rapidly aged overnight.

I’ve tried to convince my tired brain that I’m reading more into Ross’s reaction than was actually there.

But just n ow, he struggled to make eye contact – and he cried.

The only time he’s cried during the entire time I’ve known him was when we talked about children.

Or, more to the point, when he couldn’t alter my stance.

When he had finally agreed our marriage was more important than having a child, tears had flowed.

We’d cried in each other’s arms until we were exhausted and had fallen asleep.

The next morning, we got on with our life together.

Just the two of us. And we’ve been great ever since.

Emotion that strong from Ross is a serious alarm bell. So why was he so upset? I think it’s more than worry; deeper than the fear of what might happen to me if Henry really is after me. Is it possible that Ross is involved in all of this?

‘Get a grip, woman!’ I massage a dollop of shampoo into my hair, pushing my fingertips hard into my scalp.

It’s Ross, for God’s sake. We love each other – he’s just told me he loves me.

I can’t allow Henry to infiltrate our marriage like this – undermine our trust with a few words on a bit of bloody paper.

I continue to punish my skin, rubbing my thighs with the exfoliating mitt until they become red and sore.

It doesn’t help to relieve the gnawing sensation in my gut, or the creeping dread snaking underneath my skin.

I rinse the shower gel off and stand with my head up, the water splashing my face, willing the solution to the riddle to pop into my mind.

Nothing. I bite down on the mitt and scream, tears of frustration and panic mixing with the water and stinging my cheeks.

As I turn the lever, ceasing the pounding water, the doorbell sounds.

I freeze, one leg in, one leg outside the shower cubicle, a steady drum of water dropping onto the bathmat matching the speed of my heart.

Who’s that? My leg wobbles, and I step fully out then wrap a towel around me. I wait. Did I imagine it?

It rings again.

I blow out a slow stream of breath, forcing myself to be rational – it’s probably just a delivery man. I’ll leave it. Any parcels are taken to the neighbour if we’re not in; I’ll just pop around and get it later.

The bell rings again.

And keeps on ringing.

Clearly this person isn’t going to go away. I curse quietly, pull on my dressing gown and hurry downstairs, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Henry surely wouldn’t ring the doorbell – especially not multiple times. It would draw too much attention.

He’s a serial killer, Anna – he wants to be noticed .

My hand hovers above the handle, then I think sod it , and fling the door open. There’s no one there. I stick my head out, but I can’t see a retreating delivery person. And on the doorstep lies another envelope.

‘Where are you, you coward?’ My yell seems to bounce off the neighbouring houses as I bend to snatch the letter from the step, echoing my fear back at me.

Then with the envelope gripped in my hand, and fuelled by rage, I stomp barefoot up the path and scan the area.

I did take a while to open the door, so he could be long gone.

Or, he could be in another house, watching me this very minute.

I shiver, backing away from the gate. But I keep my head held high as I go inside – I refuse to let him see my fear.

I know I should call DI Walker immediately – and definitely before opening the new envelope as it’s clearly from Henry; it’s the same type as before with the same block writing – but I’m in no mood to wait, so I rip it open.

I pull the paper from inside and unfold it.

Two words are written on the top half of the page:

Tick, Tock .

Underneath this, the riddle DI Walker found inside the Tamagotchi is repeated.

I frown. Why’s he sent me the same one twice?

As I read it again, I realise it’s written in a different way.

I’d scribbled the riddle haphazardly when I copied it down, and in this version the lines are arranged differently, and with the final line now underlined.

My heart begins to race as my memory grapples to make the connection I know is there.

All of a sudden, something clicks into place, and I remember a puzzle just like this one. How could I have forgotten?

I know how to solve it.