The shock of black hair.

The birthmark on his shoulder.

Adam Stanton, police officer, husband and love of her life.

14

I spy with my little eye, something beginning with A.

Now

Did you ever learn the origins of the word pupil? I know I did not teach you and it’s not common knowledge, I suppose. Its roots are in Latin. Pupilla. Meaning “little doll.” Because when we gaze into another’s eyes, we see a tiny reflection of ourselves.

Little doll.

Birdie wanted a doll, a plaything to dress up and do her bidding. She did not want a creature with teeth and nails to scratch a way out. She wanted a dutiful child. With no man in the house, certain responsibilities fell to me. Cleaning and fixing and earning money.

When I was four and would not eat my dinner, she pressed an iron between the dip of my shoulder blades. When I was five and there was not enough money to buy food, she sent me out in the fields of the Essex edgelands to pick peas. When I was nine, she burned the skin from my wrist with lye. When I was thirteen, I blinded her in one eye with a piece of broken glass. “An accident, Birdie. I’m such a clumsy boo.” Just like she said I was.

She left me alone for months after that.

I knew Adam Stanton was a police officer. I recognized his name, of course. His face. He was getting closer, and we couldn’t have that, could we? Asking uncomfortable questions, grubbing around in the dirt of the past.

His skin stayed warm for four hours. Eyes the color of estuary mud when the clouds hang low and heavy. No fanfare. No tolling of the bells. No farewell. His final word was—there wasn’t one. A grunt. That was all.

Killing him was a risk. Order. Control. They are my watchwords, but I broke my own rules.

I do not blame him, though. He was doing his job. Too well, as it turned out.

No, the fault lies with her. Olivia Lockwood. Because without her, the murders would have been impossible to prove. But she brought down this house of cards upon us all.

15

Monday 30th July 2018, 9:17 A.M.

The Avenue

The postman parked his van at the top of The Avenue and switched off the radio. The breakfast news bulletins were full of the latest killing. The murder of a senior police officer involved in the case had raised the stakes, and a knot of journalists had already gathered at the cordon blocking the entrance to the woods.

The man, solidly built and muscular, opened one of the double doors at the back and pulled free a modest-sized bag of mail, hoisting it over his shoulder. Breathing the air was like inhaling tepid water. Even the trees seemed defeated by the heat, their leaves dry and brittle. His shirt stuck to his back despite the early hour, and he prayed for kinder weather.