‘I called a taxi to take her home. She needs time to grieve – she cried nearly all night, though she tried to hide it.’ She peered into his face. ‘How are you feeling, after Jasmine’s videos?’

‘Like I still want to kill Butch.’

She nodded. ‘You want help finding him?’

He looked at her in surprise.

‘I have a feeling Con will contact you before he contacts me, and I need to talk to him.’ She walked out of the room, calling over her shoulder, ‘Besides, who else is going to help you? Of course, if you actually try and kill Butch, fair warning, I’ll have to intervene. Remember how that worked out for you last time?’

CHAPTER 43

ELIZA

The taxi pulled up at the bottom of her drive and Eliza climbed out. Once the taxi pulled away, she put her arms around herself and walked up the drive towards her little crooked cottage.

The front door slammed open and Butch appeared in her doorway, wearing only a singlet and shorts. He had a bottle of her wine in his hand and was swaying slightly. ‘Eliza,’ he called, voice slurred.

She saw now his black Toyota Hilux parked behind an apple tree.

‘Butch?’ said Eliza. ‘What are you . . .? How did you get inside?’

‘I nee’ your help.’ He teetered on the sill, then grabbed the doorframe.

‘Butch . . .’ Eliza felt panicky. ‘Murphy saw . . . He knows you’re Jasmine’s biological father.’

‘I know. Heard through his bedroom door – Madison gave him videos . . . Can you still help me? You said you would help me.’

Eliza stepped closer. ‘What do you need, Butch?’

CHAPTER 44

MURPHY

Gabriella pulled up outside Butch’s house. There was still no sign of his Hilux.

Murphy pushed through the front door, Gabriella close behind.

‘Butch!’ called Murphy.

Gabriella wandered down the hall, looking around, and a moment later, she shouted, ‘Murphy!’

He sprinted down the hall and found her in Jasmine’s room.

Hanging by baling twine from Jasmine’s light globe was a wooden statue, bone fragments hammered into its eyes.

He felt sick.

‘When was the last time you were in this room?’ said Gabriella.

‘A couple days ago? I don’t know.’

‘We need to check the rest of the house,’ she said, running out of the room.

Murphy didn’t move. He couldn’t take his eyes off the statue.

‘Murphy!’ shouted Gabriella. ‘In here.’

He followed her voice, into Butch’s room.

On Butch’s bed were clothes – jeans and tights and crop tops and bras – torn apart and covered in blood. Sitting in the middle of it all was another wooden sculpture with a noose and bones in its eyes.

Written on the wall in blood were the words:

3 down

1 to go

‘I have to call Con,’ said Gabriella, voice shaking.

Murphy backed against the wall, looking between the clothes and the writing.

He’d been angry, so angry, but he still couldn’t . . . it couldn’t be Butch . . .