Perhaps, one day, she thought, she would remember it all as vividly as the feeling of the rope cutting into her neck.

John Redwood. What a ridiculously normal name.

It had been in the media for months now. How an eighteen-year-old boy had managed to kill so many people without being caught. In the space of ten months, he had managed to not only set himself up a network of people willing to suggest women to kill, but also evade capture.

Pretending it was about blackmail, when it was simply a case of male violence. The forum had disappeared from where it had been. Police from a few different countries were trying to investigate, but were struggling.

All started by one young teenage boy. Countless newspaper headlines screamed the same question.

How does this happen?

Natasha knew how.

She suspected every woman in the room – in every room – knew as well. All of the victims – no, survivors – in their own way.

The detective’s voice droned on, Natasha listened, as he explained to the young people in the room what could happen online. How no one was really safe, even if they thought they were anonymous.

She’d asked for this, but didn’t know if it would actually make a difference. She had to do something and she thought someone close to the case that was now so infamous might make a difference. That’s where it had all started, after all.

Online. Where the real world always feels far away.

She could feel the odd glance her way. Hear a few whispers. They would all know her face. The image of the story. The star of the show.

Maybe she should just move on.

Maybe she should ignore what was happening around her, hidden away. All these young minds being groomed into believing something that wasn’t true, that they were owed something.

Maybe there was no future.

Maybe she should at least try.

Mark was moving more freely now, but it had taken time. After that night, it had felt as if every movement was cutting him in half. The pain had been more than he felt able to handle at first, but it was getting better.

Being stabbed at least six times will do that to you. Multiple surgeries to repair the damage. Months of physiotherapy. Counselling thrown in from his employer.

He was lauded as a hero, but he didn’t feel like one. He had waited too long and paid the price.

‘You sure you want to do this?’

Mark turned to DS Cavanagh, who was sitting in the driving seat and waiting for an answer. ‘I think it’s only right. This is the end of it, right?’

‘Until the trial. Or trials, I should say.’

This was the first time he’d seen the DS outside of the hospital, but Mark knew that it was only the beginning now. ‘If you hadn’t been there that night…’