Frankly, it’s a miracle anyone got out of there alive. Felix Porter was the first to die, of course. He was locked in that cold cellar in the dark for thirty-five days while the police came and went with no idea he was right there, beneath their feet. As he starved to death, his body began to eat itself, cannibalising the protein in his muscles as a fuel source to keep him alive. His body atrophied. He developed bed sores, his bones almost poking through his withered skin. He was slowly decomposing alive.

But starvation isn’t what killed him.

No, it was worse than that, worse than you can imagine. Felix died because he was desperate for a sip of something, anything, to drink, and when his loving wife gave him a mug of cold coffee, he drank it. Except it wasn’t coffee, of course.

She gave him drain cleaner.

She’d been using it to unblock her sink that day. The corrosive chemicals blistered his lips, burned his tongue, peeled the flesh from around his mouth. His oesophagus was so damaged he couldn’t breathe and bled into his chest cavity. His teeth fell out. His vocal cords actually dissolved. It took him hours to die: long, torturous, agonising hours that must have felt like an eternity. Killing him would have been an act of mercy.

Surely the death of the person who inflicted such pain was a good thing?

I wish I could say I’d had the courage to wield the axe, as it were, but someone else beat me to it. Not that I expect you to believe me. After everything that’s gone on since then, I can’t blame you for thinking the worst of me.

The truth is, all I’ve ever wanted is to fit in. To have friends: to be loved and cared for, just like you. But I was left to sink or swim on my own. No one gave me an instruction manual. No one taught me how to speak your language. I had to figure that out alone. So I did my best to mimic you without ever understanding what normal meant. Is it any wonder I made a few mistakes along the way?

But I learned from them.

I’m immune to guilt and I’m immune to fear, but I have a very good instinct for self-preservation.

I’ve lifted the veil and shown you my soul. I’ve told you who and what I am. I’ve admitted my crime: I killed my father, and I accept now that by your lights, what I did was wrong. It might surprise you to learn I actually miss him. I may not be able to feel fear or remorse, but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of love.

But the Glass House Murders – that wasn’t me.