Page 49 of The Serial Killer’s Sister (The Serial Killer’s Daughter #3)

Dean is behind a tree, peeing up the trunk, offering me respite from his story.

The next instalment, he has informed me, will be all about Henry.

It’s the part where I assume I’ll find out how he sold me up the river.

As I hang my head, my chin on my chest, I go over my options.

There is one that would definitely save me, make all this go away, but I’d need to talk to him for that, and my mouth is taped shut.

I could scream with the frustration of it.

The fact that all of this, everything that has happened the last few days, even years, has been so unnecessary, such a waste …

I rack my brain for a way to get the tape off my mouth. My hands are so cold they’re painful. I rub my fingertips together, thankful my bound wrists aren’t constricting their movement. I must keep the circulation going.

Then I realise. The tape is looser than it felt at first – my hands were warmer when he wrapped the tape around them and now the temperature drop has made them shrink a little.

The hope almost makes me dizzy.

If I’m able to work my hands free, I could remove the tape from my mouth – enough to be heard, at least. It’s always what you hear or read about, in situations of kidnap – talking to the perpetrator, relating to them, making yourself human in their eyes, gives you a better chance of escape. But I wouldn’t need all that …

My entire body shakes. An overwhelming ache – the desperate need to live is sending adrenaline pumping through me.

The plastic layer of tape crinkles and gives a little as I twist my wrists and pull them apart a bit.

My skin burns as it rubs against the sticky side, but I keep going.

I’m sure there’s a gap now. Despite the cold, a layer of sweat forms on my forehead and more trickles down my back as my wrists rub against it while I try to work them free.

Keep going. Twist, pull, twist, pull.

Twigs crack under Dean’s footsteps. He’s finished.

My twisting becomes more frenzied and realising I’m almost out of time, I pull my dominant hand upwards to try and release it before he returns.

But it’s impossible – I haven’t made enough of a gap yet.

Frustration burns in my chest, and I want to cry.

Crybaby. I hear the mocking words inside my head.

A vision of a man’s face swims in front of my eyes, and I can even smell his sour breath.

Gonna cry to Mummy, are you? You and that pathetic brother of yours are a waste of space.

Can’t believe I have to share the same air as you.

I bite down on my tongue, willing the flashback to stop.

I repeat the words I’m strong in my head, then give myself some positive self-talk: I’ve successfully put my old life behind me.

I survived Finley Hall – I can survive this. Determination burns within me.

I lift my head, my eyes on Dean as he comes closer, and alter my position.

With my legs outstretched I rub my feet against the ground so they make a rustling sound.

This will hopefully cover the sounds of me twisting and pulling the tape so I don’t alert him to what I’m up to.

As long as I remain focused on him when he starts talking again, so he believes he’s got my full attention, I’ll be able to work my hand free and bide my time before attempting to remove the tape he’s wrapped around my head.

Picking the right time is essential, because if I try too early, and fail …

Don’t let your mind go there.

His expression doesn’t show much emotion. It’s like now that he’s got me here and revealed who he is, he’s on autopilot.

‘Oh, I’m sorry. You probably need to go too, don’t you,’ he says, just as he’s about to sit against the tree again.

I give a vigorous shake of my head. I can’t risk him seeing that the tape on my wrists is loose.

He shrugs. ‘Whatever. Piss yourself for all I care. You will anyway when I start on you.’

The threat sends a chill through my bones, but I don’t let him see my fear.

I stare, unblinking, at him until he looks away.

Does he feel shame? I wonder. Guilt about what he’s planning to do to me?

I bet he covers my face when he ‘starts’ on me.

The crime photos he showed me flit through my mind’s eye.

Those women weren’t covered, but I read somewhere that often, if a murder is personal – someone known to them – the perpetrator can’t look at them.

It’s unnerving how he’s changed since revealing his true identity. His mannerisms, speech, movements, have all altered. Even his facial features have taken a different shape – harder, sharper. He rubs at his eyes, then with his thumb and forefinger, he pinches his eyeball. What’s he doing?

‘These have driven me mad every day,’ he says, flicking something onto the grass. ‘But it’s surprising how a change of eye colour makes someone look so different.’

Of course. I knew the azure blue was too intense; the shade never altered, no matter what the lighting, no matter what he wore.

And now I remember how I thought something had shifted behind his eyes earlier, but that must’ve been the lenses moving.

I can’t be too hard on myself for not noticing, though, because even if he hadn’t worn coloured lenses, I still wouldn’t have ever suspected he was Dean.

Knowing who he is now, and seeing him in front of me, he is still too unfamiliar, like the passage of time has stolen my memory of his face the last time I saw it.

I can’t picture him as a child, either. With no photos of my past, and from years of burying everything about it, I’ve no frame of reference.

DI Walker could’ve even told me his name was Dean when we first met and I probably wouldn’t have made the connection.

‘Where was I?’ he says now. ‘Henry, yes. Twelve years on the force before I finally found your brother. It was a bizarre twist of fate. I suffered a mix of emotions: relief he was still alive, hatred that he was still alive, a sense of success, a sense of failure – every juxtaposition you can think of, really. The strangest thing was seeing him for the first time since we were teenagers. In my head, my image of him was as a thirteen-year-old boy, not a thirty-year-old man, and to be honest it threw me. I contemplated walking away. But when I was face to face with the man I knew was key to finding out where Kirsty was, my passion to bring it all to an end was so overwhelming. All I wanted to do was kill him.’

I flinch at the intensity of his voice. It’s how he feels about me, too; I can feel it.

‘Course, I had to manage my deep-rooted rage, for a while at least, so that I could get what I needed from him. So, there at the bar in a pokey pub in the middle of nowhere, I struck up a conversation, safe in the knowledge he wouldn’t recognise me.’

I raise my eyebrows.

‘Because, Anna, your brother was blind drunk. Which was good in a number of ways. He didn’t ask why I offered him a beer, wasn’t bothered who I was, where I came from, what I wanted with him – he was celebrating, he said. Needed a partner in crime to drink with because he had no mates.’

A sadness swoops through me. Henry was a broken child, grew up broken, and it sounds as though he stayed that way until his life was stubbed out.

‘He gave me an inroad, if you like. A way to talk about the past. He told me all about how he and his sister were taken into care, how they grew apart and that he reacted badly. He became mean, spiteful, out of control; he admitted that. I imagine we both agree with him there, eh?’ Dean looks up at the sky, then gets up.

‘Getting dark. I need to see your face clearly for this.’ He brushes himself off, walking towards me.

I stop twisting my wrists for the moment, afraid he’ll catch me.

I shut my eyes, say a silent prayer that he doesn’t sit next to me, then open them.

He’s close, but opposite me. I should still be able to move my hands without attracting his attention, but it’ll have to be more subtle to prevent him hearing the crinkling.

‘Henry was keen to explain The Hunt to me – even recounted some of the riddles, which was super helpful of him – and how he’d gone through a few rough years at the home, followed by even rougher years outside of it, but then got himself straight again.

Your brother came good in the end, you’ll be pleased to know. He trained and qualified as a plumber.’

It’s almost too much to bear. It’s like watching the film Titanic , knowing no matter what else happens, the ending is inevitable – there is only one outcome.

Poor Henry. Years of disliking him, being afraid of him, melt away.

Dean is clearly relishing building up to the finale of his time with Henry.

His now-brown eyes are filled with excitement as he recounts the last moments.

‘Then I asked him about you – how you must be proud of his achievements – and at first, he crumbled, became a quivering wreck. But then he got angry. Began blaming you for his nightmares, the fact he was never able to fully let go of his past – how the secret would end up being the death of him, saying, “It was an accident, but we did it.”’

My eyes hurt from holding them open so wide. Waiting for the punchline, for Dean to deliver the twist in the tale so that he can get to the part he’s spent the past three years planning, fantasising about: killing me.

‘You know what’s coming, don’t you?’ As his breathing shallows, I speed up my efforts at loosening the tape. He’s so lost in his retelling of his story I don’t think he’ll hear my attempts. I’m so close, I’m sure of it. If he gives me just a bit more time, I can do this.

‘Unfortunately, this is where it goes south. Drunk Henry was already a bit confusing, but a drunk and unstable Henry made my task all the more challenging. He kept repeating “It was an accident”, but when I pressed him on the details, he clammed up. He did let some titbits of information slip, though. And despite his drunken gabbling, I finally figured out the secret you and Henry swore to keep.’

Dean stands now and moves to the well, leaning over it as he carries on speaking.

‘You were the one that pushed my sister down there. Left her alone. Shit,’ Dean says, peering down. ‘She might’ve still been alive. Did you even consider that?’

He pushes himself away from the well and grabs a chunk of my hair, yanking my head back. I let out a muffled scream.

‘“She died, man. We killed her”’, Dean yells in my face. ‘That’s what your brother said. Can you imagine hearing those words, Anna? I can tell you, Henry finally confirming my biggest fear was like someone ripping my heart out with their bare hands.’

I whimper, and plead with my eyes to try and make him take the tape off. But he’s deep in his memory of when he met Henry now, I don’t think he’s even really aware of me – he’s talking at me, through me. I’m merely a conduit for his anger.

‘In those moments after you did it, Henry finally decided to be the good little brother because, no doubt, he felt guilty for the way he’d treated you.

So he stepped up to the mark, and once he realised what might happen to you if the truth were to come out, he told you to run away.

That he’d stay, make sure everyone believed you and your friend had done a runner.

That’s about the size of it, isn’t it? He didn’t give all the details, because once I realised my sister was dead, I couldn’t keep the years of anger that had been building contained. My bad.’

A muffled groan emanates from behind my taped mouth as I realise he’s about to tell me what he did.

‘I lost my composure, took him outside and killed him before I got the location of her body. I’ve never hated anyone more than I hated myself when I realised that.

But once I’d calmed down, it dawned on me that I had enough to be able to make sure you would lead me to my sister.

I just had to find you. Took some years, but here you are.

’ He glances at the well again, shaking his head, his face falling and his voice softening.

‘Here she is. I can grieve properly now. You were happy taking that opportunity away from me. Didn’t even give me a second thought when you left your past behind, did you? ’

He pushes me back down, then ducks down to roughly wipe the tears from my face.

‘Henry did his best to protect you over the years, Anna – and he took the secret to his grave, as the saying goes. Like you’re going to take mine to yours.’

Instinct tells me to get up and run. I know I won’t get far, but my legs kick against the ground as though of their own accord, a cloud of dirt billowing into the air around my feet as they scramble and slip on the earth.

It’s like they are disconnected from my body, no longer controlled by my brain.

Dean lays a hand on my thigh and laughs.

‘Don’t panic, Anna. It’s not your time yet. Like it wasn’t the other night.’

I frown. The other night?

‘You were really out of it, weren’t you?

’ He tuts, and a shiver runs the length of my spine.

How would he have known that? ‘Anything could’ve happened, Anna, without your cheating, lying husband there to save you.

’ He’s clearly enjoying this moment. His face is bright, his movements animated as he goes on to describe the evening after Ross left and I got drunk.

How he’d managed to get inside my house.

My skin prickles, goosebumps rising as though ice-cold water has been poured over it.

‘You had no clue it was me who carried you to bed and tucked you in?’ He seems genuinely surprised. ‘All that time I knew you were coming on to me. You wanted me, I could sense it.’

Disgust turns my stomach. I screw my face up so he can see how that thought makes me feel.

‘Liar,’ he says, pushing his face up close to mine. ‘You thought I liked you. Wanted to protect you. And all the while I was getting you where I wanted you so I could kill you.’

I flinch unconsciously, and he laughs. ‘But! I’m not quite ready yet.

You’ve a little while longer.’ He jerks up, suddenly, like he’s just had an electric shock.

‘I’ve got one last surprise for you,’ he says, then gives a quiet laugh.

‘Wait there. Don’t. Move.’ He points the gun at me.

‘I don’t want to have to put a bullet in your leg. Yet.’

He heads into the trees, the way we walked when we got here hours ago. My pulse judders. He’s going back to his car, and I have a dreadful feeling I know what this means.