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What on all the good earth happened? he asked. Her eyesight blurred with tears and the bridge of her nose tingled with emotion.Braid my hair, Shan, she whispered. “Make it happen. I finished the second glass as I recited the events of the day.Browne said hed have someone drop off the information on the missing girl. That has to be our priority, Max. We have to find her. I reached for the bottle. Rowan ducks beneath the boughs of the overhanging yew and looks upon the grave of Derrick Millward. His name, together with date of birth and death, are etched in white letters on a simple grey headstone. There is a space beneath, and in the centre, a line by Yeats. Rosie leans up to fetch something from a high shelf in the sombre yellow light she takes on the likeness of a painting by Vermeer– an apple-cheeked serving girl with a glow that speaks of glowing embers; a rose-lipped embrace. He feels a vibration in his pocket. It takes him a moment to realise its his phone. Embarrassed, he apologises and fumbles for the phone. Its a message from Matti, his half Finnish, half Jamaican agent, for whom a love of literature has not blunted his use of superfluous exclamation marks. Her teachers high heels clattered to a stop on the worn tiles. She stared at the painting in shock rather than disgust, the first time since its creation. Samara! Why the hell…? She looked down upon her mother trapped in the slideshow of sleep. What did she dream? Unemployment? The monthly budget? A daughter who didnt fit? The twitches and frowns darting across her face belied the mundane visions. She had no idea of terror. The fantastic and horrific had been purposely avoided, and the ladder of suburbia, no matter what the rung, provided a step away from real fear. Serendipity laughs as she shakes her head and opens the car door. At once, a swirl of wet air rushes inside the little car, bringing a squeal from Snowdrop. Rowan raises his hands and looks at the brown, calfskin driving gloves they had forced him into amid a symphony of curses, screeches and tears. Beneath, the wounds appear to be healing. There was less seepage this morning when they changed the bandages and he only took the recommended number of painkillers with his morning coffee, rather than doubling up. Where are we going? she asked. Today Fethan seemed more urgent. His eyes flickered around the edges of the area set aside for them, as if watching for interruptions. But as everyone kept reminding her, there was nothing personal in this instruction. It had been born from necessity. Jeren, its me. Please. She opened her eyes, but it made no difference. The darkness was absolute. It was time for a little defiance. Choose between them. The book was a critical success and a commercial failure. His series of interviews with serial killer Gary King were found to be illuminating and repulsive in equal measure. Critics said he had an uncanny skill for letting people believe they were speaking to a confidante. Rowan gave his all to the marketing campaign, writing endless blogs about hispoor-but-honest childhood and his sense of journalistic responsibility to the truth. Writers whom hed admired gave admiring quotes for the front cover and three serial killers wrote to him asking if he would like to poke around inside their heads. Trouble was, not enough people bought it. Thats what it came down to, in the end. There were posters and promos and appearances at every bookshopand library he was willing to attend. It just didnt do very well. King wasn’t a proper household name and his victims were all middle-aged white men, which meant little public sympathy. If he’d favoured young blonde girls or vulnerable women, King would have made Rowan a fortune. Rowan had come to the conclusion that there is almost nothing more expendable than a bland, white male. If he ever fancied becoming a serial killer himself, he would definitely make them his targets. After teenage runaways and long-term addicts, there is little in society as replaceable as a man. His number twos still around, says Chris, helpfully. And I suppose after all this time theres nothing to stop you speaking directly to the girls. Theyre still local. You’ll find Catherine I will never be yours, he snarled. Wolf image from Pixabay.