‘He’s dead,’ she says, matter-of-factly. ‘He died a few hours ago, while you were still unconscious.’ She sighs. ‘I suppose it’s for the best, really. He was in a lot of pain.’

She sounds almost regretful.

‘What happened?’ I ask, keep my voice level.

‘Drain cleaner,’ she says carelessly. ‘Terrible way to die.’

She could be talking about the weather.

‘I really am sorry I had to involve you, Millie,’ Stacey adds honestly. ‘This was never part of the plan. I told you, I like you. You were just supposed to be a distraction – the police would never have had enough evidence to convict you, not without a body. I told you on Saturday we had a deal, and I meant it. But then when Peter came over this afternoon—’

‘He found Felix,’ I say flatly.

‘Oh, he knew Felix was here,’ Stacey says. ‘He’s known since the very beginning.’

chapter 62

millie

I should be more surprised. My ten-year-old son has known Stacey had her husband handcuffed to a pipe in the cellar and he’s kept it secret for five weeks. But I understand better than most the secrets children are capable of keeping.

‘Was he … was he part of it?’ I say. ‘Did he help you bring Felix here?’

‘No, I told you. That was Felix’s idea. I told Peter about Felix because he deserved to see what he could do, what he could be, given the chance.’ A note of admiration colours her voice. ‘You really should be proud of your son, Millie. He was an extraordinary kid. The way his mind worked—’

She isn’t making any sense. It’s clear to me, even if it isn’t to her, that she intended to kill Felix all along. That’s why she involved Peter: as her acolyte, her disciple. Maybe she needed him to help her finish what she’d started. An unholy, homicidal alliance.

Twenty years ago, a forty-one-year-old man killed seventeen people in a series of sniper attacks across America with his young accomplice, who was just seventeen at the time. An unequal partnership, but a partnership nonetheless: psychopaths brought together by a sinister kinship that transcends age and defies definition.

Just like my son and Stacey Porter.

‘Why did you have to drag him into it?’ I say. ‘He’s ten.’

‘A ten-year-old who tried to drown my son. Hardly an innocent, Millie.’

‘So this was, what? Revenge?’

She laughs. ‘Oh, Millie. No. This was reward.’

I have no idea what she means: I can’t think straight. My head is throbbing again, and my arm aches unbearably from the pressure and restriction of being raised and cuffed to the water pipe. I shift in an attempt to ease it, and a blinding shaft of pain leaves me breathless and light-headed.