Page 22 of Her Lips Are Sealed

Morgan’s vision blurred and she had to swipe away the tears with the sleeve of her paper suit. She wanted to sit down and cry for Ash and for Rachel, for every single victim she had met. It was beyond painful. Morgan had her own vision board that she made on Pinterest every New Year’s Day and on hers were pictures of New York and The Witch House in Salem. She wasn’t a material person but there was a Louis Vuitton planner and purse on there just in case she ever felt the urge to truly spoil herself, not that she ever would. But wasn’t that what most women in their thirties wanted, to prove to themselves they could have whatever the hell they desired. This was proof that life was too short. You never knew how long you had, so shouldn’t you make yourself happy first before anybody else?

‘Hey.’

For the second time in ten minutes Morgan jumped. She turned to see Claire standing at the top of the stairs.

‘Oh hey, Claire. I haven’t touched anything. Did Ben tell you about the note from earlier?’

Claire nodded. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Not really, I’m tired of seeing women so brutally murdered because some sick bastard decided to get their kicks this way. It’s like we’re going back in time to the seventies instead of moving forwards.’

‘Amen to that.’

‘I’ll just take a quick look then be out of your way. The last note was on the bed, tucked underneath the pillow.’

‘You lead and I’ll follow, how about that?’

‘Thanks.’

Morgan walked towards the other bedroom door that was wide open. This one was messier than Rachel’s and Morgan approved of the clothes strewn across the floor and chair, as well as the books stacked haphazardly on the pitch pine bedside table, next to a candle that was called Old Books. She had to swallow down the golf-sized lump in her throat; she was going to cry again.

‘There’s something there.’

Claire’s voice was high-pitched, excitement maybe or fear. Morgan wasn’t sure. She watched as Claire used her bodycam to film and then photograph the room, focusing on the bed. She carefully tugged the piece of paper out from underneath the top pillow, holding it between her gloved fingers for Morgan to read.

SHE LIVED ALONE MY FAVOURITE GIRL NO ONE TO HEAR HER SCREAM EXCEPT FOR THE NEXT ONE WHO WILL HEAR HER IN HER NIGHTMARES I AM COMING FOR HER SHE LIVES ON HER OWN I HAVE FOUND HER I WILL STOP HER FROM BEING LONELY EVER AGAIN

‘It’s almost identical to the first one, “his favourite girl”, oh God, if she was his favourite and he killed her this way, there is no hope for anyone else who has come into his line of sight.’

Morgan’s throat felt dry, she needed a drink, would kill for an ice-cold glass of rosé to help ease the pain of seeing this firsthand.

She took out her phone and snapped a photo to show Ben, as this entire room was now off limits. She slowly backed out of the door thinking the killer came upstairs, there were more places that he could have left prints, DNA behind on the banister, the door frames, walls.

‘Sorry, Claire, I’ll leave you to it.’

Claire was busy bagging up the letter. She didn’t look up. ‘Cheers, Morgan.’

Morgan hurried back outside to tell Ben about the note.

FIFTEEN

Lisa Palmer could not stop thinking about the copper she’d spoken to at the station. He’d seemed as interested in what she had to say as her ex-boyfriend, Jake, whenever she’d broached any subject remotely serious. As she locked the library doors and twisted the door knob to double check it was secure, she sighed. Was she being stupid, overly sensitive about the guy? She was doubting herself now, but Coniston wasn’t the kind of village that weirdos chose to hang around in. It was just too far from any of the nearest busy towns. The bus route left a lot to be desired, and there were no trains that even skimmed past it which made her feel even more on edge because that meant he might live there.

As she drove home, she saw the police vans almost blocking the entire road. Blue-and-white police tape, flapping in the breeze, was blocking the entrance to Brade Street and she slowed down to take a better look. Officers were stopping anyone from going into the street and she realised it must be serious. Tempted to park up and go ask what was happening, she knew that would be a waste of time, they wouldn’t tell her anything. She carried on driving to her apartment. Thank God the weird guy was nowhere to be seen. If he’d been hanging around, she might have gone back to tell one of the officers to come and speak to him like that policeman Marc had told her to.

As she let herself into the communal entrance, she could hear her cat, Pickles, miaowing from here and she cursed her friend, Isaac, who was supposed to have been to check on her today. After rushing up the stairs, she opened the front door and Pickles darted out, running downstairs and straight out of the front door that had just been opened by Mike who lived in the flat above her.

‘Pickles,’ she yelled after the cat.

‘Sorry, Lisa, I didn’t see her,’ he called up to her.

Lisa leaned over the railing and grinned at him. ‘It’s okay, she must have been cooped up all day. Don’t worry.’

Mike nodded. ‘See you later.’ Then he went upstairs and into his flat.

Lisa liked him. He wasn’t the chattiest of people, but he was always polite and happy. Inside of her flat she realised she hadn’t left the kitchen window ajar like she usually did for the cat to get in and out. No wonder she had done a runner. She slid it up so she could get back in after she’d chased some birds and butterflies around. Hopefully she wouldn’t find any field mice today. Last week she’d very kindly brought one in through the window, clamped between her teeth. The poor thing was tiny and had still been alive. It had lain there trembling and Lisa had scooped it up in her oven gloves and taken it back out into the garden to set it free. Pickles was a hunter, the vet had told her she would be, yet she’d hoped she would prove him wrong, but so far, she was a huge disappointment in that department. Lisa wanted her to be a fat, lazy cat that did nothing but bask in the sun all day.

Kicking off her trainers, she went into the kitchen and turned the kettle on. She needed a mug of tea, a sandwich, and to chill with the latest book she was reading, which was an old classic by Nathaniel Hawthorne, The House of the Seven Gables. Lisa was slowly making her way through all his stories now that she’d read everything by Edgar Allan Poe. Lisa liked old stories, liked to be transported back to times where there was no internet or social media.