“You can come to my place,” Karen said. “It’s not a problem.”
She hadn’t spoken until now. Amanda looked at her.
“Are you sure about that?” she said.
“Yes.”
Amanda could tell from Karen’s expression that she understood the severity of the situation. Tom was silent for a moment, considering the offer. Despite Amanda’s reservations about the journalist, she hoped to God he said yes. She could do without the headache of finding him somewhere else to be right now. And it was obvious that he wanted to say yes—that he was a man on the verge of collapse—and so Amanda decided to give him a push.
“Okay, then.” She held out her card. “Those are my details. Direct line. I’ll get a family liaison out to you first thing in the morning anyway, but for now, if you need anything, you call me. I’ve got your number too. Any developments at all, and that includes about Pete, and you’ll hear from me the same minute.”
She hesitated, then lowered her voice slightly.
“The same fucking minute, Tom. I promise you.”
Fifty-four
The day was dead and the night was cool.
The man stood in his driveway, warming his hands on a mug of coffee. The front door of his house was open behind him, the inside dark and silent. The world was so quiet that he imagined he could hear the steam rising from the cup.
He had made his home on an out-of-the-way street in an undesirable area, a few miles from Featherbank itself. It was partly for financial reasons, but mainly for privacy. One of the neighboring houses was vacant, while the occupants of the other kept to themselves, even when they weren’t drinking. The hedges on either side of his small driveway were overgrown, shielding his comings and goings from view, and there was never anything in the way of traffic. This wasn’t a street you came to, nor was it anywhere you would pass through on your way to somewhere else. It was, put simply, a place you avoided.
Francis liked to think that his presence here had contributed to that. That if you did find yourself driving past for some reason, you would understand on some primal level that it was not a location in which to linger.
Much like Jake Kennedy’s former home, of course.
The scary house.
The man remembered that monstrosity from his own childhood. It appeared to have been common knowledge among the other children that the place was dangerous, although none of them had known why. Some said it was haunted; others claimed that a former murderer lived there. All without reason, of course—it was solely down to how it looked. If they hadn’t treated Francis the same way, he would have been able to tell them the real reason the house was frightening. But there had been nobody for him to tell.
It felt like a long time ago. He wondered if the police had found the remnants of his old life yet. Even if so, it didn’t matter; he’d left little behind but dust. He remembered how easy it had been—how simple it was, on one level, to become someone else if you wanted. It had cost less than a grand to acquire a new identity from a man sixty miles south of here. Ever since, he had been building a shell around himself to enable him to begin his transformation, the same way a caterpillar emerges from its own cocoon, vibrant and powerful and unrecognizable.
And yet traces of the frightened, hateful boy he had once been remained. Francis had not been his name in years, but it was still how he thought of himself. He could remember his father making him watch the things he did to those boys. From the look on his father’s face, Francis had understood only too well that the man had hated him, and that he would have done the same to Francis if he could. The boys he killed had only ever been stand-ins for the child he despised most of all. Francis had always been well aware of how worthless and disgusting he was.
He couldn’t save the boys he’d seen murdered all those years ago, just as he couldn’t help or comfort the child he had once been. But he could make amends. Because there were so many children like him in the world, and it wasn’t too late to rescue and protect them.