“He dresses them,” she said, feeling her stomach turn over. The eggs felt heavy and unwelcome. “He dresses the bodies, arranges them. He cares more about them dead than alive. He cares about this picture he’s creating.”

She scrolled down, already wondering why she had decided to do this to herself. Hadn’t today been enough?

There were a few posts from people speculating on the Red Wolf’s motives, talking about possible links to paganism and devil worship. The hearts, someone claimed, had never been found, along with other soft tissues—the poster was of the opinion that he might have eaten some of them, like Jeffrey Dahmer or Albert Fish. Heather got up to refill her wine glass, glancing uneasily at the windows. It was fully dark now, and they showed her nothing but her own reflection.

The doorbell rang, startling her into putting down her glass. Snapping the laptop shut, she went to the door, peeking out the spyhole before opening it.

“Lillian?”

“Hello dear,” the older woman stepped past her smoothly into the hallway, then as if catching Heather’s aggrieved look, held up a tote bag. “Sorry, I know it’s quite late. Just come for my casserole dish, if that’s all right? I need it for tomorrow’s dinner. I hope you’ve eaten it by now or it will have gone peculiar.”

“Oh sure, no problem. It’s all washed and ready. Come through to the kitchen …”

Except that Lillian was already there, locating her blue casserole dish and placing it carefully into her bag. Heather eyed the washing up from the day before—she’d always been lazy about chores—and felt her cheeks grow warm.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” She cleared her throat, feeling ridiculously formal.

Lillian raised her eyebrows at her and smiled. As before, she was dressed smartly, in a fitted green tweed suit, a brooch in the shape of two intertwined silver fish on her lapel, and her black leather handbag shining expensively. She wore pearl earrings, tiny and discreet flashes of white on her earlobes.

“That would be lovely, dear. Just a small one, if you don’t mind.” When Heather had handed her a glass, she took the smallest sip imaginable. “How are you getting on? Holding up all right?” Her gray eyes were kind. “When is the funeral? I would dearly like to attend. Colleen was such a good friend.”

Heather took a long gulp from her own drink to hide her discomfort. She had been trying not to think about the funeral at all; most of the arrangements had been made as soon as her mother’s body had been released from the mortuary, and since then she had done the bare minimum.

“Next Wednesday, at one o’clock, Baleford crematorium. I invited everyone I could find in my mum’s address book, I must have missed you.” She forced herself to smile. “You’re very welcome to come along, of course. I don’t imagine there will be many of us there—Mum didn’t have any family left, and she tended to keep to herself.”