BooksBarbecue
Back The Family Next Door Save as PDF
Chapters (117)
  1. Also by
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright Page
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. 37
  43. 38
  44. 39
  45. 40
  46. 41
  47. 42
  48. 43
  49. 44
  50. 45
  51. 46
  52. 47
  53. 48
  54. 49
  55. 50
  56. 51
  57. 52
  58. 53
  59. 54
  60. 55
  61. 56
  62. 57
  63. 58
  64. 59
  65. 60
  66. 61
  67. 62
  68. 63
  69. 64
  70. 65
  71. 66
  72. 67
  73. 68
  74. 69
  75. 70
  76. 71
  77. 72
  78. 73
  79. 74
  80. 75
  81. 76
  82. 77
  83. 78
  84. 79
  85. 80
  86. 81
  87. 82
  88. 83
  89. 84
  90. 85
  91. 86
  92. 87
  93. 88
  94. 89
  95. 90
  96. 91
  97. 92
  98. 93
  99. 94
  100. 95
  101. 96
  102. 97
  103. 98
  104. 99
  105. 100
  106. 101
  107. 102
  108. 103
  109. 104
  110. 105
  111. 106
  112. 107
  113. 108
  114. 109
  115. 110
  116. Teaser chapter
  117. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

I folded up my past until it became a forgotten slip of paper, buried at the bottom of a drawer. Formed friendships. Tried to behave in the ways that others did. I watched and learned and copied.

I was a decent person. Paid my taxes. Put litter in the bin. Helped old folk to cross the street and contributed to society.

But as the seasons moved on, I did not.

I found it hard to see clearly, to shine as brightly as I might. I was obscuring a part of myself, like a smear on glass.

Because through the years of living my life, the comfortable ordinariness of it all, death whispered to me. It still does. Lures me. Teases me with its what-ifs. I tried to ignore it. And I managed to do so for such a long time. I fought to nail it down. And I would have succeeded. But the interference of others denied me a future.

They held a special service for Natalie Tiernan. With counselors on hand. The school she taught at established the Natalie Tiernan Prize for Academic Excellence in her memory.

First through the shop door. First to find Birdie. First to die.

Her murder was as perfectly executed as clockwork. She had no reason to suspect. Invited me in with a smile on her lips. It didn’t take long for her to stop smiling.

I developed a taste for it once I had started. And I claimed them, one by one.

Oh, the newspaper stories. Reams and reams of them. Enough to paper a house. All asking the same questions. Why paint the faces of the dead? Gouge out the eyes? Why hide the bodies in the woods?

And the naming. Always the naming. Drumroll, please. Step forward, The Doll Maker.

There’s a pleasing symmetry, don’t you agree? A sense of tying it all together. Clever of them. The press, I mean. But not quite clever enough.

I have read all the stories. I have watched the television specials and their theories are wrong.

There is no mystery behind the paint. A final gift to bestow upon the lost, to rescue them from the ravages of decomposition, to ensure they face the darkness as the best versions of themselves. An apology, too, I suppose. A way of making amends for the act of murder, of repaying what I have stolen by using their skin as my canvas, breathing youthfulness back into them. And, most important, a sleight of hand, a misdirection.

The eyes are different.

I took those because of what they had seen.

61

61

Tuesday 31st July 2018, 2:06 P.M.

25 The Avenue

The first thing Garrick Lockwood noticed was the silence.

“Liv.” His voice rang out in the stillness. Again, with urgency. “Liv, I’m home.”

Nothing.