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But that all changed when Dad died.

He then became the one who visited, mowing the lawns and dropping off endless supplies of uncooked pork, occasionally bringing the bins in and washing the commodore. I’d been so grateful at the time, needing an authoritative figure to help me learn how to become the adult my sister required. I now knew his motives were more nefarious than helpful.

I peeked into the window, narrowing my gaze through the lace curtains, trying to detect any movement, the sounds of the muffled television heard over the pigs squealing. “Wayne Gatz, it's Peter Rosen. Open up!” I requested through the door, Sebastian standing by my side with his hand resting on his holster. “Wayne?” I tried again before a loud dragging sound came from somewhere inside.

“What was that?” Sebastian murmured as I knocked harder.

“Wayne you have five seconds to—” My words faltered as the door abruptly swung open.

“Alright, alright, steady on,” Wayne muttered, stepping out onto the veranda. He pulled the door shut behind him before it could open wider, his body filling the gap. “What’s all this about, boys?” he questioned, crossing his arms over what appeared to be a woman’s frilly apron.

Sebastian cleared his throat and produced his badge. “I’m Detective Carlone, this is Detective Rosen. We have reason to believe that you're involved in the abduction of Jackson Easton.” Wayne looked between the two of us before he erupted into a fit of laughter, a rowdy sound that echoed within the enclosed porch.

“How’d you land on that one, mate?” he asked, scratching at his head, brows knitting together like he was honestly trying to work it out.

He was good.

“Your name has come up after evidence was collected at the crime scene. We have a court-appointed search warrant to check the premises,” I informed him, handing over the papers, his calloused fingers crinkling the pages as he snatched them from my hands. He flicked through them, occasionally glancing between Sebastian and I with a smirk.

“Well you’ve picked a good day, I've been cleaning since this morning,” he said, shoving the file under his arm before opening the door and stepping aside. The door creaked as I walked in, a plume of falsified sweetness clinging to the air. It was crowded and smaller than I remembered. It had an open-plan kitchen situated adjacent to a small lounge room. A large, round table was covered by a long white tablecloth, the dining chairs upside down on top of the table top. I wandered around the kitchen, noting a half-eaten plate of bacon and eggs upon the counter top with flies swarming it. A brand new vanilla scented candle was lit next to the stove, the wick still white at the base.

“Sorry boys, if I had known you were coming, I would have cooked you’s something,” he grumbled, leaning against a wall in the foyer, trying to appear nonchalant as Sebastian searched the lounge room behind me, occasionally snapping a few images himself, the shutter heard over the television.

“No need,” I replied, taking my own camera out and snapping photos of the room. I noted how the kitchen window above the sink had a padlock on the latch. Aside from the remnants of cooking utensils and oil-slicked pans, it was noticeably clean. My finger paused on the clicker when I noticed strange pieces of art covering every square inch of the walls. A small oval frame with what appeared to be a belly-button-centered flower was hung next to a large maroon-coloured painting of a woman’s silhouette.

“Got quite the collection here,” Sebastian remarked as he brushed up beside me, his eyes stuck on a dream catcher that appeared to be woven with hair. Now that I’d gotten used to the candle’s savoury scent, I could smell something stronger underneath it. Dust and decay—like the pages of an old book, or sour milk.

“Yeah, my wife made them all, God rest her soul. Couldn’t handle getting rid of them after she died.” I raised my brow at that, never finding anything about his late wife to have an interest in art from the research I did. I raised the camera and snapped another shot, noticing the way the material in this piece was wrinkled and discoloured.

“What did she use to make them?” I questioned, turning around to face Wayne.

“That one there is pig’s skin, and that lady was done with pig’s blood,” he said, tilting the frame at the bottom so it sat straighter on the wall. I connected eyes with Sebastian over his shoulder, and he shook his head and mouthed “No fucking way.” I nodded and smiled at Wayne.

“Do you mind if I take a look around the rooms?” I didn’t actually need his permission, but I needed him to think I did. A man like Wayne loved power and control. He probably got off on “allowing” us into his space, even when he had no real say in the matter.

“Yeah nah, no problem mate. Take all the time you need.” He grinned and raised his hands in surrender, backing out from the hall and taking a seat on the sofa in the lounge. Sebastian furrowed his brows and shook his head again.

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” he whispered before walking back into the kitchen. I spun around and moved further into the home. The hallway walls were littered with more pieces, and a heaviness seeped into my marrow the longer I stood there surrounded by the morbid creations. It was almost unbelievable, like the set of a horror film.

Was I currently standing in the home of The Skinner?

It sure as hell felt like it.

No way in hell were these created out of pig skin. I was no expert, but if I had to venture a guess, I would put all my money on the flesh behind these frames being human more than anything. How detached from reality, from humankind, do you have to be to do this to innocent people? I silently prayed that I was wrong, that I was jumping to conclusions. Maybe Wayne’s wife really did have a strange talent—it wasn't so far-fetched. The man did live on a pig farm at the end of the day.

The door creaked as I entered the bedroom. It was noticeably small with one window beside the bed and a large dresser placed in front of the window. I looked behind the door, noticing a tall wardrobe. Both sides of the bed were unmade, the doona bunched at the bottom of the mattress. I frowned and took some photographs. Sebastian’s voice flowed down the hall, Wayne’s reply unintelligible as I pulled a pair of gloves on and approached the dresser.

The first drawer was filled with old socks and moth balls, and the second drawer was his faded underwear—lovely. But the third drawer had delicate negligees, tiny scraps of see-through fabric. Way too small to fit his late wife. I opened an evidence bag and placed a light blue nightie into it, a sickening feeling clicking into place as the lace hit the bottom of the bag. I placed it in my blazer pocket, the knowledge of what it could be searing a hole into the fabric.

I took more photos before I left the room. The bathroom was next to it, a compact room with one shower, the curtain damp, the mirror murky, and the titles covered in soap scum. No products were in the shower—not even a lousy bottle of shampoo. I closed the door behind me and looked down the hallway, spotting a large cabinet standing against a wall at the end, clunky and misplaced, the walls scratched from where the corners dug into the plaster.

Wayne and Sebastian’s voices faded the further I went, but the closer I got to the cabinet, the worse the knots in my stomach tightened. I swallowed and ran my finger over the dent in the wall, white powder leaving residue on my fingertips. I opened the doors and found it empty. The three drawers below were also vacant. But something was telling me to stay—to keep looking.

“Sharon’s delicates used to be in there. Couldn’t handle seeing them, so I moved them to the bedroom.” I turned and stared at Wayne, trying to see through the facade. Wayne seemed to have an answer for everything, even for the questions I hadn't even asked. I caught eyes with Sebastian behind him, who stood stoic with a grimace.

“Anything behind it?” I asked.

Wayne just chuckled and plopped a heavy hand on my shoulder, squeezing it with a tight grip before letting go. “If you boys don't mind hurrying up, I've got things to do today. You're not going to find that Jackson boy in here. Stop wasting everyone’s time,” he said, motioning for me to follow him back down the hallway. I ignored him and took more photos of the dresser, squatting down to snap one underneath. Wayne grumbled as he walked away, his heavy footsteps fading down the hall.