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

‘What’s wrong?’

His blue eyes are partially hidden by strands of dark-brown hair, which fall into his eyes. He sweeps them back before he speaks.

‘This is a bit weird for me. I mean . . .’ he says, suddenly more animated, placing his beer bottle down on the table. ‘Iain had to explain to me that this isn’t the first time stuff’s been left outside the house. He said there was an incident last week.’

My face screws up in confusion, but it’s brief, fleeting, because I know almost in an instant what he’s talking about. Who he’s talking about.

Her.

Ruby Tate.

‘Shit,’ I say, easing myself back to sit on the floor, one of Iain’s dirty work T-shirts still in my hand.

A silence hangs heavy in the air between us. Jason doesn’t know what to do. He looks out of his depth. He’s not used to being around me like this, in this setting.

He edges closer to me after a few moments have passed. ‘You OK?’

I look at him. ‘What was it this time?’

‘A note.’ He pauses. ‘It was insulting, aimed at you.’

‘Is that all?’ I say, slightly relieved. Confusion crosses his face. ‘Last week it was dog shit through the letterbox,’ I clarify.

‘Oh.’ He scratches his head. ‘I had no idea.’ He reaches forward, offering his hand, and I take it, let him pull me up from the floor. Once on my feet, he shoves both hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘Iain’s never said anything about this woman before.’

A thought rushes through my head then. ‘Did Elle read it?’

‘No. No, I scrunched it up, hid it in my pocket until she was inside the house.’

‘Do you still have it?’

He shook his head. ‘Iain took it, but he filled me in on a few things. He’s worried about you, Charlotte. He said he’d be showing the police.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t want him doing that. It’s nothing really. Nothing we can’t handle.’

‘Didn’t look like nothing.’

‘There’s no need for concern.’

‘Charlotte, Iain said it was best that I was here to watch Elle. He obviously doesn’t think this is nothing.’

I turn to him. I’m mortified. ‘Look after Elle? Why, did Ruby threaten my daughter?’

‘What?’ His face screws up. ‘No, God, no, but given that you’d . . .’ He trails off.

‘Given that I’d forgotten my daughter, Iain wanted you to watch her until I got home.’

He nodded.

‘Iain mentioned the charity fete thing you’ve got planned with Savannah.’

I look at him, waiting.

‘Maybe, given Ruby . . . Maybe you should cancel it?’

I look at the floor. I thought the whole thing with Ruby wasn’t getting to Iain. He’d told me to try and ignore it all, try to move on, at least until the trial.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Don’t keep asking me that.’

Jason’s looks at me now and, as I feel tears pricking at the backs of my eyes, I realise I can’t lose it in front of him. I don’t know him nearly well enough.

I shake myself. ‘Thanks, Jace, but I am not afraid of Ruby Tate.’

‘It’s not about whether you’re afraid of her, it’s about whether it’s worth risking her—’

‘Jace,’ I snap. ‘It’s fine. I’m OK . . . We’re OK.’

He looks unsure whether to believe me or not. I sense he doesn’t believe the bravado.

I swallow hard, try to control my voice, my face. ‘We’ll be OK. Iain will be back soon and I’m sure you’ve got things to be getting on with. Your girlfriend must be missing you. We can’t take up any more of your evening.’ I smile at him. I need to hold it together.

He doesn’t look convinced. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘We’re good. I promise.’

Even to my own ears, I don’t sound convinced.

*

Elle looked crushed when Jason told her he was leaving, but after about ten minutes she’d clearly forgotten all about it.

She sits opposite me now across the kitchen table. She’s not really spoken to me since Jason left. I can tell she’s angry but I did catch a hint of remorse in her eyes earlier. I think she knows I’m being hard enough on myself and that she doesn’t need to punish me quite so bad.

She sighs as she flips over a page in her textbook.

She’s finishing off some art history coursework, while I browse online.

At least that’s what she thinks I’m doing.

I’ve actually just logged on to Facebook, and after the initial relief at seeing there are no new private messages from her, I type her name into the search box.

Ruby Tate.

One tap of the button, and there she is, top of the search list of women with that name.

I stare at her tangled mess of long, dark-brown curls, brown-almost-black eyes staring back at me, further accentuated by some stupid Snapchat filter.