Upper Stanton. Logan sits in the drawing room of his large detached home, contemplating the almost unthinkable possibilities.
Charles is in his early sixties now, so, that would have made him in his late forties fifteen years ago when Catherine was nine. Though she said that she’d been almost ten, he recalls, wanting to get the facts straight in his mind. But the man Catherine described had been much younger – so had she been wrong? Had she remembered the attacker’s voice wrong, after so many years and having been so young and traumatised when she’d heard it in the first place? But then he has to consider Catherine’s brilliant memory. Perhaps it isn’t just facts and figures that her brain absorbs so readily. Perhaps she has perfect recall of other things, too.
Catherine has not been home or to her office for over a week. Not since Logan drove them, back from Lakelands and insisted that she at least stay the night. Settling Catherine in her own room, Logan insisted that she hang the clothes she brought back with her, up in the wardrobe.
Now she is restless; Logan has had to go into his office today and she is left on her own to continue their work on finding the animal that murdered her mother. Perhaps I ought to phone Ben again she ponders a frown drawing her brows together, and moans aloud at the prospect. She couldn’t blame him; when he learned that she’d been back for three days before she had even thought to ring him, he’d been righteously pissed! He hadn’t quite handed his notice in, but she is sure it had been a close run thing.
“Well here goes,” she says to the empty room, and picks up the phone in the lounge to call him. “Ben, hi,” she greets him cheerily, though it sounds forced even to her, “I thought we could catch up over lunch,” she offers, “If you’d like to?”
He volunteers to pick her up, and although she doesn’t want to admit that she is still at Logan’s house, she doesn’t have her car so has to accept. “Ok, that’s fine.” Bloody hell! Catherine gives him Logan’s address and ignores the muttered oath that Ben doesn’t even try to smother. “I’ll see you at one, then, bye.”
Going back to Logan’s home office, Catherine sits back down behind his desk and studies the screen of his computer.
“Now then, where did we get to?” she asks, talking to herself. “Yes, that’s it.” She reads an article about a murder that had happened ten years ago – Logan thought it might be connected, reasoning that even if the modus operandi was different the level of violence is a match, and she has to agree. However, they have actually found sixty-three murders committed over the last fifteen years that match the criteria they have set. Sick fucks! They enter all of them onto a spreadsheet, detailing age and sex of victim, injuries sustained, duration of attack, marital status, how many children they had, and whether or not the killer has been apprehended.
Having finished the article, Catherine sits back in the chair and pushes her hands back through her hair. “Jesus…it’s a fucked up world.” When she thinks about all the families affected by the murder of a loved one, she considers herself lucky in a twisted kind of a way. After all, it has just been her, no husband or brothers and sister to worry about – just her.
Diving back into her search, Catherine doesn’t notice the passage of time and starts violently when the doorbell rings. “Christ, is that the time?”
Preparing herself before opening the door, Catherine repeats the words ‘I am calm’ in her head then plasters a greeting smile on her face. “Hi, Ben, I’m all ready, just let me get my bag.”
Ben doesn’t reply at first. “What the hell are you wearing?”
She freezes, having forgotten that she is wearing one of the dresses she bought on her recent shopping trip with Logan. “It’s a bloody dress, Ben,” she spits out defensively. “Women wear them!”
“Not you,”
Charles is in his early sixties now, so, that would have made him in his late forties fifteen years ago when Catherine was nine. Though she said that she’d been almost ten, he recalls, wanting to get the facts straight in his mind. But the man Catherine described had been much younger – so had she been wrong? Had she remembered the attacker’s voice wrong, after so many years and having been so young and traumatised when she’d heard it in the first place? But then he has to consider Catherine’s brilliant memory. Perhaps it isn’t just facts and figures that her brain absorbs so readily. Perhaps she has perfect recall of other things, too.
Catherine has not been home or to her office for over a week. Not since Logan drove them, back from Lakelands and insisted that she at least stay the night. Settling Catherine in her own room, Logan insisted that she hang the clothes she brought back with her, up in the wardrobe.
Now she is restless; Logan has had to go into his office today and she is left on her own to continue their work on finding the animal that murdered her mother. Perhaps I ought to phone Ben again she ponders a frown drawing her brows together, and moans aloud at the prospect. She couldn’t blame him; when he learned that she’d been back for three days before she had even thought to ring him, he’d been righteously pissed! He hadn’t quite handed his notice in, but she is sure it had been a close run thing.
“Well here goes,” she says to the empty room, and picks up the phone in the lounge to call him. “Ben, hi,” she greets him cheerily, though it sounds forced even to her, “I thought we could catch up over lunch,” she offers, “If you’d like to?”
He volunteers to pick her up, and although she doesn’t want to admit that she is still at Logan’s house, she doesn’t have her car so has to accept. “Ok, that’s fine.” Bloody hell! Catherine gives him Logan’s address and ignores the muttered oath that Ben doesn’t even try to smother. “I’ll see you at one, then, bye.”
Going back to Logan’s home office, Catherine sits back down behind his desk and studies the screen of his computer.
“Now then, where did we get to?” she asks, talking to herself. “Yes, that’s it.” She reads an article about a murder that had happened ten years ago – Logan thought it might be connected, reasoning that even if the modus operandi was different the level of violence is a match, and she has to agree. However, they have actually found sixty-three murders committed over the last fifteen years that match the criteria they have set. Sick fucks! They enter all of them onto a spreadsheet, detailing age and sex of victim, injuries sustained, duration of attack, marital status, how many children they had, and whether or not the killer has been apprehended.
Having finished the article, Catherine sits back in the chair and pushes her hands back through her hair. “Jesus…it’s a fucked up world.” When she thinks about all the families affected by the murder of a loved one, she considers herself lucky in a twisted kind of a way. After all, it has just been her, no husband or brothers and sister to worry about – just her.
Diving back into her search, Catherine doesn’t notice the passage of time and starts violently when the doorbell rings. “Christ, is that the time?”
Preparing herself before opening the door, Catherine repeats the words ‘I am calm’ in her head then plasters a greeting smile on her face. “Hi, Ben, I’m all ready, just let me get my bag.”
Ben doesn’t reply at first. “What the hell are you wearing?”
She freezes, having forgotten that she is wearing one of the dresses she bought on her recent shopping trip with Logan. “It’s a bloody dress, Ben,” she spits out defensively. “Women wear them!”
“Not you,”
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