‘I’m afraid to sleep,’ Abbey says, not letting go. ‘I had dreams like this all the time. Getting rescued. How do I even know you’re real?’

‘There’s a counsellor who can—’

‘Abigail!’

A middle-aged woman has entered the foyer. She runs towards us, tears carving valleys through her make-up. Her handbag bounces so vigorously on her shoulder that a bunch of stuff falls out. She doesn’t even seem to notice.

‘Mommy!’ Abbey cries. The two women wrap each other up in a desperate hug, like they’re afraid a tornado or a flood will tear them apart.

Thistle tells Mrs Chapman that the trauma psychologist will have to speak to her about Abbey’s long-term care, and that she will need to sign some forms regarding the flights. I’m not convinced that Abbey’s mom hears or understands any of this.

Soon the psychologist reappears and takes over. Thistle nudges me, and we escape into the parking lot. It feels good to get outside, despite the frigid night air. All the grief in there was exhausting.

My Toyota is still at home. Thistle offers me a ride. As we drive out, we pass a dark blue sedan in the parking lot. A Buick. I feel like I’ve seen it before, but it takes me a second to remember where. It’s the one I saw at the cabin in the woods.

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 30

I turn once. What is in will not get out. I turn again. What is out will not get in. What am I?

‘I don’t like not knowing the motive,’ I say.

Thistle takes the exit towards my house. ‘Control,’ she says. ‘Some men just like the idea of owning a woman.’

‘Yeah. But if Luxford is our guy, why kill all those other people?’

Thistle drums her fingers on the wheel. ‘He said Abbey wasn’t his type,’ she says finally. ‘Maybe what he meant was, he doesn’t like sex toys and outfits. Maybe he gets off on blood, pain, death. Maybe Fred’s recordings are of torture, or murder.’

I squint. ‘How does Biggs fit into this?’

‘Biggs is in a different category altogether. He knew Shannon. His death could have been connected to Hope’s rape, like we said.’

‘If Luxford gets off on murder, why rape Hope and all those other women at all?’

‘A person can have more than one defect,’ Thistle says. She only sounds half convinced, but she has no idea how right she is.

Thistle stops the car. I unbuckle my seat belt.

So does she.

It’s after midnight. What is she doing? ‘What, you want to walk me to my door?’

Thistle raises her eyebrows at me. ‘We’re short on time. You’re telling me you’re done for the day, just when we’re getting somewhere? Have you joined a civilian consultants’ union, and you only work nine to five now?’