nearest town by one main road and a criss-cross of narrow lanes. There must be something about the moors that attract these murderers—that draw them out.
“Tell us about Little Amy,” someone asks.
Igor pauses. A shadow crosses his face. “That’s one murder I’ll never forget. I knew her, you know, I knew her parents. I don’t like to talk about it, because I knew her.” He shakes his head and looks away.
“Did they ever find the murderer?” another voice, male, pierced eyebrow.
“No,” he says. His voice is small and quiet. “No, they never found him.”
Lacey glances towards me. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Amy knew Seth?”
The words cut through me. Her face says it all. The murderer was never caught. It happened five years ago. Seth would have been fifteen, Amy twelve. I shudder. No, what is she saying? That can’t be right. I shake my head, no .
“Think about it, Mares. Think about the teenagers who have killed younger children, those with troubled childhoods and a fascination with death. It fits. I don’t trust him.”
I want to scream at her. She’s the one who told me to ask him out in the first place. She told me to go for it, to take a chance. When we almost died on the Ferris wheel, she encouraged me to put my life in his hands. Now she’s saying she doesn’t trust him?
“Not here,” I say with a hiss.
Neil turns to me with a questioning look in his eyes.
We move on. Lacey is quiet and I exhale with relief. But she never meets my eyes, instead she stares into the shadows between houses like she sees more than we can.
My mind is abuzz with thoughts, so I try to focus on the tour guide and the ghost wal k. I almost will the ghosts of Nettleby to reveal themselves to me, longing for a distraction. At one point, a burnt girl stares from a window, her face an ember, a lump of coal. Charred ribbons hang from what little hair she has left. I never realised how many remnants there are left from those who have died. It’s not just the ghosts or spirits from the dead, it’s the echoes too—memories from those who knew them, items of clothing passed on to charity shops, antiques sold at auction, the houses standing tall and proud, trodden ground, walked on by millions of feet. No matter where we are, it’s an intrusion on where someone has been, where someone has died. I’m a speck—nothing more, nothing less—one of the billions who will come and go as the echoes remain. Instead of fear, it brings me comfort. I don’t feel so alone, somehow.
Neil gets us a cup of tea f rom a burger van outside the one nightclub in Nettleby.
“Fancy it?” Lemarr asks, nodding towards the entrance.
A parade of girls, barely legal, in heels as high as the stack o f books I have to read, stagger their way down the steps. One pauses to puke.
“Erm, no. I think I might head back to the site.”
“We’ll walk you home,” Neil says. “You’re pale as milk. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I can’t help glancing at Lacey with a smile. She returns the smile, but with a guilty look in her eye.
“It’s okay. If you want to go to the club—”
“We’re coming with you,” Lemarr insists, putting his arm through mine. Neil does the same on the other side.
“Someone wants a threesome,” Lacey says with a smirk. “You up for it, Mary?”
I narrow my eyes at her. Nei l notices and frowns. I know he suspects I’m hiding something. What I don’t know, is how deeply he actually believes in ghosts. If I told him, if Lacey revealed herself to him, would he turn and run a mile? Or would he help? Is he someone I can trust?
It’s a fairly short walk back to the campsite. I glance at my watch, not even midnight yet. My mind turns to Seth. There’s no way he’s the killer. He can’t be.
But how else would Amy know him?
Could I risk it? Could I risk talking to him? I think of how relaxed he made me feel, how at ease. Women felt like that around Ted Bundy as well, you
“Tell us about Little Amy,” someone asks.
Igor pauses. A shadow crosses his face. “That’s one murder I’ll never forget. I knew her, you know, I knew her parents. I don’t like to talk about it, because I knew her.” He shakes his head and looks away.
“Did they ever find the murderer?” another voice, male, pierced eyebrow.
“No,” he says. His voice is small and quiet. “No, they never found him.”
Lacey glances towards me. “Don’t you think it’s strange that Amy knew Seth?”
The words cut through me. Her face says it all. The murderer was never caught. It happened five years ago. Seth would have been fifteen, Amy twelve. I shudder. No, what is she saying? That can’t be right. I shake my head, no .
“Think about it, Mares. Think about the teenagers who have killed younger children, those with troubled childhoods and a fascination with death. It fits. I don’t trust him.”
I want to scream at her. She’s the one who told me to ask him out in the first place. She told me to go for it, to take a chance. When we almost died on the Ferris wheel, she encouraged me to put my life in his hands. Now she’s saying she doesn’t trust him?
“Not here,” I say with a hiss.
Neil turns to me with a questioning look in his eyes.
We move on. Lacey is quiet and I exhale with relief. But she never meets my eyes, instead she stares into the shadows between houses like she sees more than we can.
My mind is abuzz with thoughts, so I try to focus on the tour guide and the ghost wal k. I almost will the ghosts of Nettleby to reveal themselves to me, longing for a distraction. At one point, a burnt girl stares from a window, her face an ember, a lump of coal. Charred ribbons hang from what little hair she has left. I never realised how many remnants there are left from those who have died. It’s not just the ghosts or spirits from the dead, it’s the echoes too—memories from those who knew them, items of clothing passed on to charity shops, antiques sold at auction, the houses standing tall and proud, trodden ground, walked on by millions of feet. No matter where we are, it’s an intrusion on where someone has been, where someone has died. I’m a speck—nothing more, nothing less—one of the billions who will come and go as the echoes remain. Instead of fear, it brings me comfort. I don’t feel so alone, somehow.
Neil gets us a cup of tea f rom a burger van outside the one nightclub in Nettleby.
“Fancy it?” Lemarr asks, nodding towards the entrance.
A parade of girls, barely legal, in heels as high as the stack o f books I have to read, stagger their way down the steps. One pauses to puke.
“Erm, no. I think I might head back to the site.”
“We’ll walk you home,” Neil says. “You’re pale as milk. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I can’t help glancing at Lacey with a smile. She returns the smile, but with a guilty look in her eye.
“It’s okay. If you want to go to the club—”
“We’re coming with you,” Lemarr insists, putting his arm through mine. Neil does the same on the other side.
“Someone wants a threesome,” Lacey says with a smirk. “You up for it, Mary?”
I narrow my eyes at her. Nei l notices and frowns. I know he suspects I’m hiding something. What I don’t know, is how deeply he actually believes in ghosts. If I told him, if Lacey revealed herself to him, would he turn and run a mile? Or would he help? Is he someone I can trust?
It’s a fairly short walk back to the campsite. I glance at my watch, not even midnight yet. My mind turns to Seth. There’s no way he’s the killer. He can’t be.
But how else would Amy know him?
Could I risk it? Could I risk talking to him? I think of how relaxed he made me feel, how at ease. Women felt like that around Ted Bundy as well, you
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