A chill ran through her as she saw her mother’s clothes laid out on the bed side by side. There were four more photographs like that one, including photos of all of Lisa’s underwear. Tim must have taken some of those photographs when he was in the house alone; others were taken at night. Jasmine tensed; she knew exactly which night. She couldn’t think about that right now; she had to focus on what she was there for. These photos of her parents’ room were like an inventory of some sort. Why would he want this?

The next photograph stopped her in her tracks. It was Jasmine’s bedroom, her clothes, every single one of them, laid out and photographed, just like her mother’s had been. Whatever his perversion was, it made less and less sense to her by the second. She died a little when she saw he had been through her laundry and photographed it as well, including her dirty underwear. Next were more photos of inside the house, including all of her and her mother’s jewellery, with some items circled, although she had no idea why. She felt dizzy with fear. Everything was so methodical, so clinical. It was like a dossier of every part of her family’s life. The reality of the danger she was in was starting to hit home – these photos were not normal, they weren’t even normal perversion. It would almost make more sense if he had photos of them all sleeping or getting undressed. This though? This was like a mission.

The next photos were of a different quality, much older, well-worn at the edges. The first was of the green house again, a similar picture to the one before but a much older copy. She turned the page to uncover the next photograph, catching her breath instinctively.

The first thing she saw was red. The tones varied from bright, luminous streaks across the top half of the photograph and deep chocolatey red pooling at the bottom of the picture. Blood. So much blood. The picture showed the corpse of a young woman, in her late teens at most, barely recognisable as human. She was swathed in blood, with not a patch of her skin untouched by the red cloak of death. Who was she? Why did he have this photograph? Her mouth ran dry; she didn’t want to turn to the next picture but her fingers had started moving independently. She could tell these photos were real. They weren’t pretty or stylised enough to be anything else. She felt sick to the stomach.