Page 43 of The Unforgiven

“A group of people judging women.”

“Not just people. Men. I think you’re right to explore the incel theory. While actually getting away from their screens and doing something is unusual for this group – they prefer to be keyboard warriors – never apply the same rule to everyone, for it will only be broken. Thank you.” He gave the waitress a nod. “Add the bill to my tab and I’ll settle up before we go.”

She beamed at him, probably a student working in Manchester instead of going home, and I suspected she knew who Daniel was.

“Another fan?”

“Possibly. I think I recognise her from a lecture. I know killers that work in pairs are rare, but terrorists working together is not uncommon. Maybe this should be considered an act of terror.”

“You mean to consider profiling them as terrorists. Then the victims could be people they know – I’m sure the killer must’ve known Chelsea, but Brooke could’ve been sourced through hashtags on social media. The third is still unknown.” I checked my phone. There were a few messages, one from Vinny, another from Cavan, and one from Nate. Time to get back to the action – or lack of it.

There was nothing much worse than a group of frustrated coppers, searching for answers under rocks that’d been scrubbed clean.

“Why did he clean the rocks? If he thought his victim was worthless, then why bother cleaning them?”

Daniel frowned at me. “Are you sure he cleaned them? They weren’t just cleaned by the river?”

“Positive.” I felt that same confusion I’d had last in Daniel’s office. A shift. “It was as if they’d been bleached. As if he’dbeen saving them for a special occasion, like it was a childhood trophy.”

“Remember that sometimes you read too much into things. Not everything has a deep and meaningful reason. Are you happy your brother’s in town?” He put his cup down and sat back again.

“Yes. I am. He’s very grounded. I think I’ll like him being around.” I stood up, not wanting to open the wardrobe in my head that allowed several skeletons to tumble out.

Daniel stood too, looking at me as if he was trying read my thoughts. “Be careful, Mia. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“You know I’m too fast for that.”

Chapter Nineteen

In truth, I hadn’t been fast enough, and Daniel knew that. But that had been years ago, before I’d even come to Manchester, before I’d broken down the box that labelled me as a looked after child and started to decide who Mia McAllister was.

Today she was frustrated because there had been no more leads. The searches through missing persons hadn’t come up with anything yet, although in all likelihood, she’d only been missing around twenty-four hours or so, and maybe no one had noticed yet that she was missing.

Nate had confirmed further the similarities between the three victims. Janine Doe died from exsanguination due to renal artery trauma, bleeding out from the first stab wound. Again, the lungs contained minimal water; she’d entered the water postmortem, and there was no sign of sexual assault, just like the others.

I stood outside the address Nate had texted me, a three-storey semi-detached in Chorlton, a trendy urban area of Manchester, full of hipsters and artists and bakeries that would’ve meant I’d need an extra ten miles each week just to stave off the effects of the bread. It was close to Didsbury, so I’dgrabbed a taxi, still standing there holding a bottle of decent fizz long after the taxi driver had hurried off for his next fare.

Permanence. This was what it looked like to have decided to lay roots, to say this is it for now.

No more moving. No more changing lanes. The whole process of getting a mortgage and going through the purgatory of buying a house wasn’t worth it for just a few years, not for a house like this, which was probably five bedrooms.

I rang the bell, more nervous than I knew what to do with.

Nate answered, thick rimmed glasses making him look exactly like the science geek he was. He was casual, for him, light brown chinos and a neatly pressed shirt, a tank top over it that somehow didn’t make him look like my computing teacher from when I was at school.

He had the same dark features as I did, dark brown hair, chocolate-coloured eyes, high cheekbones and strong bone structure. We were unmistakably siblings until we spoke, and our accents couldn’t differ more.

Nate had gone to private school, then to study at University College, London, somehow ending up at Stanford, then back over here.

I’d been state school all the way, and I wouldn’t have swapped it, although there had been an offer from Stan to pay for private and even boarding school. I hadn’t wanted his money; not until my foster mum persuaded me to not cut my nose off to spite my face.

“Like it?” He looked up at the red brick archway.

“I do. Needs a decent paint job.” The paint on the wooden sash windows was peeling, the front door probably the original and in need of some TLC.

“It’s a project. It’s been empty for about six years. The owner was an elderly lady who went to live with her sister but didn’t want to sell this place. She didn’t maintain it, her healthdeclined and her children wanted a quick sale after she died. I’ve benefitted.” He gave it an appraising look. “Lots to do, but I like a project.”

“How’ve you afforded it?” It really was none of my business, but I asked anyway, half-dreading the answer.