“Without this video, we have nothing. She’ll keep torturing Scott.”

“I can’t!” Markus exploded.

Lauren leapt to her feet, hands raised. “Take it easy.”

“I can’t,” he repeated, quieter. “Get out of my house. I’ve done my part.”

“You haven’t given me anything we can use to make her stop. How is that doing your part?”

“Get out of my house.”

“You want her to keep hurting Scott. It keeps her distracted. You’re happy for her to kill him as long as it keeps her away from you, is that it?”

“I said get out!”

Lauren marched for the door. Markus held the hard drive behind his back, as though Lauren was going to steal it.

She walked onto the street, her throat tight. The poor cat. That crazy bitch.

Lauren needed to get her hands on that video.

35

CASEY

Casey laid the flowers on her mother’s grave. The headstone was clear, making the words easily readable.

Loving mother, devoted wife.

It was true. Casey’s mother had loved her. No matter how many years passed, no matter how misty memories of her became, she knew that. Her father didn’t start with his filth until Mum was gone, and before that Casey remembered so much warmth and affection. She remembered the smell of her mother’s perfume and hugging close to her body and a broad light-filled smile.

But then there was the other part. Devoted wife.

That was true too, as far as Casey could remember; family photo albums indicated the same. She’d stood by this man, who must have shown some signs of who he really was. Somewhere along the way, there must’ve been a comment, a look, something that revealed his sick desire. Casey may have her fun, but she’d never hurt a child.

She looked back at the car. Even from there, she could see that Scott was trembling. She knew sweat would be flowing down his forehead, his cheeks. She gave him a thumbs up and turned to the other grave.

There lay dear Daddy. His headstone was overgrown with weeds, the liar’s letters covered in grime. He’d never loved anything except for the worm between his legs.

“Do you remember the day you told me you were ill? You looked at me like you expected me to care. You had tears in your eyes, you pathetic fuck. Do you remember what I did?”

Her dad had told her while he was doing the ironing. She was twenty-three, and in the years since her girlhood they’d silently agreed to pretend none of it had ever happened. It was like he thought they could bury it: he could still be a good dad despite all that. But that wasn’t how life worked.

Something had snapped in her. All that pain, all that humiliation, all the wrong. It had thundered up inside of her and she’d grabbed the iron, smashing him across the mouth. He’d grunted, fallen, and then Casey was on him. She pushed the iron against his neck, cackling as his skin sizzled, screaming words she couldn’t remember now; they were lost in the hiss of his flesh.