Pretty Little Things: 2018’s most nail-biting serial killer thriller with an unbelievable twist

‘Have you got time for a coffee?’

Savannah glances at her watch again. ‘Yeah, sure, just a quick one.’

*

‘Why can’t she have a party?’ Savannah sips her coffee. ‘I’m confused.’

And I’m frustrated she’s just not getting it.

‘I never said she couldn’t. Not exactly.’ I sigh, rub my forehead.

‘You’ve booked a DJ already, and the community hall.’

‘Yes but—’

‘You’d lose your money.’

‘The deposit.’

‘But still . . .’

I let her words hang in the air a moment before I speak. ‘I was thinking maybe we could still have a celebration for Elle but not on such a large scale.’

‘Like what?’

‘Maybe joint with the charity fete?’

She scoffs. ‘Not sure Elle-Belle’s going to like that.’

‘Well, maybe a meal out with just a few of us?’

‘What about her friends?’

I pause, think. ‘They can come to the charity fete. It’s an open event for ours and the surrounding villages, after all. I’ll leave the kitchen open for them to drop presents off.’

Savannah chews her bottom lip, mulling it over. ‘Slight problem.’

I look at her.

‘Isn’t there a party Elle’s been invited to this Friday? You mentioned it the other day.’

I nod and see her point before she spells it out.

‘You can’t say yes to letting her go to that and then take away her own birthday party.’ She pauses, sips her drink. ‘You are letting her go to that, aren’t you?’

She sets her mug down and folds her arms on the kitchen table in front of her.

I look at her well-defined, arched eyebrow, her expertly applied makeup and feel self-conscious about my own face. I realise I’m staring and inwardly shake myself.

I shrug. ‘I don’t know. I’m torn. I mean, Iain…’ I say and clasp my hands around my own mug. ‘He thinks we should let her go to this party and he’ll take her and pick her up . . .’

‘But?’

‘But I can’t help thinking about what happened before.’

‘That was under different circumstances, though,’ Savannah says, shifting in her seat. She’s dancing around saying it out loud, I know.

‘True, but still . . . Once that trust is broken, it’s hard to get back.’

‘Maybe that’s the way forward with Elle. Start giving her a little more rope to play with, so to speak, and let her see you’re trying to give her the chance to prove herself. Maybe you could just postpone her party. Give it a few weeks for things to settle down here?’ She pauses. ‘You don’t want to let her down, not when you’ve been trying to make headway with her.’

I remain silent.

‘She is nearly seventeen, after all,’ she adds.

Savannah’s my age and she’s not married, doesn’t have kids. This is easy for her to say. She has no idea what it’s like to be a parent. Sure, she has a small nephew, looked after him a little, but it’s not the same.

There’s this bond, an ache – for me anyway – as a mother, something Savannah can never really understand, never feel between me and Elle. She’s the most precious thing in my life. If she was ever taken from me . . .

‘Do you think we have enough sweets?’

I look at her, confused.

‘For the kids?’

I continue staring at her, Elle’s party still in the forefront of my mind. ‘For the kids . . .?’

‘Yes, hun. For the kids’ stalls. At the fete,’ she stresses, leaning closer to me.

‘Oh, yeah. Sorry, of course.’

I think she can see I’m starting to lose enthusiasm for all this. I can’t help but think of Ruth. Of Caroline. Of her body unceremoniously dumped in the ground.

Truth be told, though, I feel organising this fete is taking its toll on me. Savannah’s had to pick up the slack a fair bit and I feel bad about that.

She places a hand on my arm. ‘I can take on more of the responsibility if you want?’ She pauses. ‘I know you’ve other things on your mind.’

She raises her hand to my face as she says this and rubs her thumb gently over the section of forehead where my scar begins.

I flinch under her touch.

‘Sorry,’ she says, but doesn’t take her hand away. ‘You’ve missed a bit.’

She smooths what must be a glob of foundation over a ridge in the skin and it stings. I try not to react.

She gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘There.’ She appraises me. ‘It’s not as noticeable.’

I feel like she’s left a spark of electricity that flickers its way down the angry-looking red scar that trails from my hairline on the left, in an almost vertical line to my nose.