Page 29 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.

I pop my index finger in to release it and it comes free with a dry clicking noise.

I drag my other arm out from under the duvet and tap my hand over the bedside table, hopeful of finding the glass of water I usually take to bed.

My hand makes contact with it and I manage to slowly manoeuvre myself so my other elbow props me up enough to enable me to drink.

It’s tepid, and as soon as the glug of water lands in my stomach, it contracts to expel it.

‘Oh, God.’ I practically crawl to the bathroom, stick my head over the toilet bowl and vomit.

I feel like someone is ripping my insides out.

My heart has been torn out already, so that’s one less thing to worry about.

Images flash through my mind, like an old cine film.

Each one sends a shockwave through me, and each recalled confession from Ross’s mouth is like a punch to the stomach.

Then the memory of throwing him out surfaces, but it’s fuzzy around the outsides.

Did I tell him never to set foot in this house again?

I groan. He’ll have gone to Yasmin’s. Did I send my husband directly into the arms of his lover?

I hear my phone vibrating on my bedside table.

It might be Ross. I pull myself up from my kneeling position by the toilet, to standing, the pressure in my head intensifying.

As I reach the bed and stretch across the mattress to grab my mobile, I have a strange feeling – like a nervous, butterfly sensation – and with it comes the knowledge that I didn’t take myself to bed last night.

Someone tucked me in, said goodnight. I’m sure of it.

Ross must’ve come back home despite me telling him to leave.

I pick up my phone and see that the new message is from Serena.

Are you OK? I heard about the extended suspension. What utter crap, I’m so sorry. Call me. Come over for a Wine an extra clue – something to point me in a certain direction?

I have yet to venture outside, and now I rush to the front doorstep to check if another envelope awaits. Nausea swills in my belly – whether from the anticipation or the hangover, I don’t know.

Nothing.

I peer up the street, walk up the path and step out into the road.

Seagulls swoop and I’m about to swear at them when I notice a man in the distance.

He seems to be looking in my direction, but then turns and goes the opposite way, back towards Ness Cove.

I squint, hoping it will give me clearer vision so I can tell if it’s the same man I’ve seen outside my house before.

Just because I’ve only noticed him on two occasions doesn’t mean he’s not been hanging around for longer. Could he be Henry?

Retreating back inside my house, I slam the door and lock it. Then I check the back door and all the windows to make sure everything’s secure. By the time I go back to the kitchen and pick up my mobile, I’ve had three missed calls from DI Walker.

The knock at the back door sends a bolt of fear right through my body and I freeze.

I can make out a large, dark mass through the frosted glass panel.

My first instinct is to hide – duck down behind the breakfast bar; pretend I’m not here.

But the flight response is replaced by fight, and I slide a knife from the block and approach the door with it gripped in my hand, my arm raised.

My breathing shallows and the sound of my heart whooshes inside my ears.

The knocking becomes more urgent, each rap like a gunshot.

I screw my eyes up. It could be Ross, in which case this stress reaction is wasted.

And I’d best not attack him for the second time this week.

The knocking stops. Has he gone?

I open my eyes, force my shoulders down, take some slow breaths; then, with the knife held in an attack position, I unlock the door.