Page 49 of The Unforgiven

It was her, as we confirmed an hour later, Leah bracing herself to identify the body of her sister, carefully shrouded on a cold slab in the morgue.

Nate was there, Easter Sunday not meaning anything for him because the dead wouldn’t rise and he was on duty. Jenna Osei was not there, a rare off day unless we found another body in the water, which meant I had another day to get used to the fact she’d been having contact with my half-brother and I hadn’t.

Morgan Skelton was well-liked, pretty, and good at her job, a year five teacher at a primary school she and her sister could walk to. Her friend Isabel had been expecting her on Thursday night, ready to start the Easter weekend with a night out in Liverpool, a goodbye party for a university friend with around twelve others.

She hadn’t shown up at the Air B&B they’d booked to accommodate them all, messaging Isabel a couple of hours before she’d meant to be there to say she was running late as she’d met an old friend on the way to the station.

That’d been the last thing anyone had heard from her.

I watched Leah get into her parents’ car, a family liaison officer allocated to them following behind as they left to go back to the parents' home, and I left to meet Vinny at the flat the sisters had shared, ready to comb through another life that’d been cut short.

“How long do you think you’ll do this for?” Vinny said, pulling books off shelves in Morgan’s bedroom and checking for anything in between the pages. They were romance novels, some annotated or flagged with pastel coloured stick tags, hearts drawn in margins and sentences underlined. Some were signed, a few had bookplates in them.

“Check through victims’ underwear drawers?” I’d not let Vinny go through them. It felt like something Morgan would’ve been embarrassed about.

“No, idiot, deal with murders. Detectives either end up in it until they retire or burn out and move to something less – hard.” He pushed another book back in its place.

“No idea. I can’t imagine I’ll do anything else, which feels a bit soul destroying, really. What about you?” I took a step back from the dressing table, taking in the bigger picture. A jewellery box, a jewellery stand with necklaces hanging off it and bracelets. Some neatly stacked eyeshadow palettes, all decent brands and a photo of her sister in a pretty gold frame.

Exactly what I was expecting.

“Organised crime when a DI position comes up.”

“That’s worse than murder.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He looked at another book. “My ex-girlfriend had this. She bought it after seeing loads of book influencer people rave about it on social media. She showed me a video once on there with this woman reading bits from the book and showing pages like this that were highlighted. You don’t think Morgan has any social media accounts like that, do you?”

“She was a teacher, so I doubt she showed her face too much online, but you don’t have to. Let me find out.” I called the FLO, a lady called Diane who I’d worked with several times before. “You thinking that’s how she was picked.”

Vinny shrugged. “Maybe. I mean, some of the scenes in these books – there enough to make any bloke feel inadequate, I mean, listen to this what Morgan highlighted: ‘His hands travelled across her breasts, eliciting shivers from her in the best possible way, his fangs ready to take what he needed. She was ready to take what she needed too, the hardness still shrouded in his trousers.’I mean, what the fuck? She’s getting screwed by a vampire.” He put the book back in disgust. “I don’tget it – women would rather lust after fictional creatures than bother with the real thing?”

“If the real thing is you, Vinny, then do you blame them?”

“Ha fucking ha. Mia McAllister, comedian.” He carried on waffling, but I blocked him out, something I’d become an expert on.

I looked around the room, taking photos of the pictures on her wall, the girlish bedspread, collages of photos of family and friends, right back from when she was twelve or thirteen maybe.

“I’m going with the multiple killer theory, incels out to prove they’re not just talk.” He stretched. “There’s nothing in here that suggests she’s got a boyfriend, and I reckon once we look at her social media, she’ll be on there talking about hot book boyfriends.”

“You’ve got a real thing against book boyfriends. I’d never have put you down as being threatened by a fictional character.”

“Hmmm.” He folded his arms. “That ex-girlfriend had us recreate a scene from her favourite book. I’m not into role-play, Mac, I prefer to make it up as we went along.”

“What was the scene, or is that a question I’m going to regret asking that?” The answer was – probably.

“One from a book about a cop. It involved handcuffs and a situation I wasn’t comfortable enough. I actually don’t want to give you more details even though you’d hate it.” He took a long look at the books.

“There seems to be a theme here, Vinny, with you having uncomfortable moments with women in bed.”

“This wasn’t in bed. I just seem to have a knack for going for women who think I’m going to have a kinky streak.”

“Have a word with your tattooist; I’m sure he’ll happily put a warning on your forehead. Hang on, Diane’s messaged me.” I read the text. “You’re right – Morgan’s active on social mediaand she posts about romance books. Her name on there’s Tropes Before Tea.”

“Good work, Diane.”

There was nothing to hint at who Morgan had met Thursday evening. No messages on her socials, no passing comments that her sister had heard her make. No clue left for us to be able to track down a killer whose identity we had no lead on.

I spent Easter Sunday afternoon eating discount Easter eggs and reading through comments left on her social media, which ranged from the positivego, sister, I love your vibetomodern women think they’re too good for average guys. You won’t be smiling foreverfrom the completely Awakened_TrueMale69.