Ingrid Devlin with her blonde hair and her pale skin. Her slender fingers and her gentle curves. She oozed class now. A professional lady. A successful journalist and writer. He’d even seen her interviewed on The Late Late Show about her books.

He couldn’t stay away even if he tried. He was drawn to her. If he could just explain to her everything he knew about that night then maybe she wouldn’t be cross. She wouldn’t look at him with the disdain she had in her eyes last night, as if he was an annoyance to her. She might look at him differently. She might give him a chance. Let him do the things to her that he wanted to do. There were so many things he wanted to do. He’d take his time, enjoy every inch of her body. These are things he thinks about as his hand moves faster and faster until he feels his body spasm with the force of his climax, her name on his lips.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Ingrid

The sheaves of paper on my table are mocking me. My laptop remains closed. Normally I’d get up, make myself a cup of coffee then sit down and get straight to work.

This morning, I’ve made the coffee, but I’m curled on the sofa cradling the mug in my hand and I don’t know where to start. It has all become so complicated and I don’t know who I can trust any more.

This is darker than I ever thought it could be. Darker certainly than anything I have tackled before. I had tossed and turned all night. Thinking about the Dohertys and their new nightmare. And about Declan and the dejected look on his face as he left. I’d been unnecessarily cruel to him.

And as for Jamesy? I’d try to call him later. Maybe arrange to meet him again. I’d make sure no one could possibly have any clue about our meeting. I’d have to be careful about it. I doubt whoever was behind the attacks on my flat or my car would give me any more chances before I, too, might feel the kind of retribution Liam Doherty had.

Taking a sip of coffee, I realise it has long since gone cold. The bitter taste makes me wince and I get up to make a fresh cup, which I realise I will probably just stare at again until it, too, goes cold.

I’ve just flicked the kettle on to boil, when my phone starts to ring. It’s Ryan.

‘Ingrid,’ he says when I answer. ‘How are you this morning?’

‘I’m okay,’ I lie, because I’m still mortified for crying down the phone last night.