“Sit,” Nicole repeated, perching on the seat. Her eyelids were heavy in the gloom, and she felt the sudden urge to yawn.
“Give me your hand,” Franco said, his voice slightly muffled.
Nicole tried to oblige him but found that her limbs did not want to comply. She just needed to sleep for a few minutes, that was all. Then she would sit for the artists. She was aware of a sharp sting in the crook of her arm, felt the pain as a needle punctured her skin, but she didn’t move.
Couldn’tmove.
Her eyes remained closed as she felt the slow tug of blood being drawn from her veins, smelled its metallic tang when it hit the air. She tried to fight, to protest as Franco bound her body to the chair, but her voice had been stolen, just like her purse full of pennies.
She had no choice but to sit there as he worked, trapped inside her own body, until blessed darkness took her away.
THIRTY-FIVE
Even though this morning’s classwas on painting, something I think I’m actually growing to appreciate, I couldn’t concentrate for most of the day. All I could think about was the tarot deck at home and how desperate I am to try to match the last two cards against the remaining portraits. That and the fact Noah didn’t show up to class, which made me feel a confusing array of things that I don’t want to examine right now. Instead, I went through the motions and then spent the afternoon session trying to look for more information on the women from 105 Orchard Street, but I can’t access most of the records I come across without an expensive subscription.
I watch Izzy carefully lay out her project on the living room floor. She brought it home because she’s stressing about not being finished on time, and we’re currently listening to one of Dad’s random records while she works and I stare at the ceiling from my prone position on the sofa.
“Has Jake texted the group yet?” Izzy asks. I check my phone, even though I already know there’s been no activity since thismorning.
“Nope.”
“What about your dad?”
“His last text was when they boarded at the airport in Malé, so they’re in the air as we speak.” I try not to think about our failed attempt to buy paint for my bedroom wall on the way home—hopefully Kim will forgive me. I’m actually looking forward to seeing them both tomorrow.
I just hope nothing happens in the meantime.
I push myself up to check Izzy’s progress. It’s really starting to look like a piece of fabric now, and I can see how carefully she has woven the different colors to form a zigzag pattern. “That’s beautiful, Iz.”
“Thanks.” She beams. “I’ve got so much left to do on it before the end of the week, though.”
She starts alternating between the different-colored strands as I sit up and fish around in my bag for my notebook. I should probably get on with my project too—maybe I could start scouring census results for Frances. I settle back on the cushions and open my notebook to the table of information when something catches my eye: the dates.
I sit up straight. The first two BBK murders happened seven days apart. He waited four days to commit the third, then only three days until his final kill. This isn’t unusual—serial killer timelines often escalate once they get into their groove. I think back to Helen’s and Jen’s murders and realize they happened four days apart. Whoever is copying the original murders hasn’t copied thetimelines.
He’s practically halved it.
I compare the dates again. If I’m right, and my gut is screaming that I am, then best-case scenario, he might wait another four days—and two of those have passed already, so the next one could happen sooner than I thought.
Tonight, even.
“Iz…” I say her name slowly, and she pauses what she’s doing. “I need to tell you something.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.” She sighs, but she puts her project down and looks at me expectantly.
“I know you don’t want to think there’s any real connection between Helen and Jen and The Four, but look at these dates…” I trail off as Izzy refuses to move closer.
“Fliss, I can’t do this again. I know you’re into all this stuff, but you’re not a detective. You’reseventeen. And look, the police are making enquiries—we saw that much this morning. I’m sure they’re on top of what’s been happening.”
“But I don’t think they’ve made the links I have!” I say, the frustration seeping into my voice.
“Can you hear yourself, Fliss? It’s literally their job to make the links you have. If there is something to your whole copycat killer angle, then I’m sure they’ve worked it out too,” Izzy argues, and I close my mouth. We sit in silence for a few moments before Izzy lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. “Fine, fine! Just tell me what you’re thinking. Get it off your chest. Maybe you’ll feel better after and you’ll be happy leaving the police to do their jobs.”
I pick up the tarot deck and hesitate. “Are you sure you won’t get angry at me again?”
“Maybe I will, but I’m your best friend. It’s my job to listen to you, at the very least.”
I take a deep breath and begin.
