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

‘No,’ she said. ‘Lights out now. Come on, it’s late.’

Connor flopped back down in the bed. ‘You weren’t here all day.’

Madeleine heard the frustration in his voice and felt the usual twinge of guilt she did most days, wishing she could divide her time between home and work equally.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘It’s Saturday.’

‘I know.’

‘The weekend.’

‘My job’s not a nine-to-five, Con, you know that. I had to work.’

‘You were out most of last night too.’

Madeleine held back on telling him why she had been called out to the wasteland late last night. She wanted to protect her children as much as possible from the horrors that were in the world. They were growing up quickly and, with the internet, smartphones and social media, she knew they wouldn’t be her naïve young boys for long.

‘I had to work, sweetheart.’

His eyes flashed then, realising the significance. ‘You catch any bad guys today?’ he said, smiling at her.

She ruffled his hair. ‘Go to sleep.’

*

After she’d eaten, Madeleine settled on the sofa. She had changed into a pair of jogging bottoms and a loose-fitting T-shirt, dragged her hair up into a scruffy ponytail and opened one of the folders she’d brought home that held copies of the crime-scene photographs.

Nick looked over her shoulder as he handed her a bottle of beer.

He saw the crude grave, the pit and what lay inside it.

‘Bloody hell, Mads,’ he said as she took a swig from the bottle. ‘You can’t leave that here. What if the kids see?’

Madeleine bristled. ‘Since when do I ever leave my work lying around for anyone to look at?’

Nick flopped down on the other end of the sofa and drank from his own bottle of beer. ‘How did they . . .?’ He broke off, unable to say the word. Instead he gestured with his bottle.

‘Die?’ she said.

He nodded.

‘We don’t know yet,’ she said, rubbing her forehead as a headache started to build. She needed sleep. Right now she was running on fumes, at risk of burning out just as the investigation was getting more serious.

Nick watched her face, saw her eyes droop with tiredness.

‘Why do you put yourself through all this?’ When Madeleine looked at him, he gestured towards her. ‘Look at you. You’re tired most of the time, home late, working weekends . . . Kids miss you. I miss you.’

Madeleine looked indignant. ‘It’s just this investigation. It won’t go on for ever.’

‘You’re a DI now. More responsibility, less time for us.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘It’s not silly to the kids, babe. They missed you tonight. And last night . . . all week so far, actually.’

‘That’s not fair. Last night they were already in bed when I got the call.’

‘And today . . . tomorrow?’

Madeleine remained silent but closed the file. She scooted up towards him at the other end of the sofa.

‘Do you think I’m in way over my head?’ she said, lying against him as he wrapped his arm around her.

‘No,’ he said, swallowing a mouthful of beer. ‘I think you’re bloody good at your job and you’re not scared of being out of your depth.’

She arched her head, turned her neck to look at him. ‘No? You don’t think so? There’s a lot hanging over my head with this.’

‘You’re not scared of failing, Mads.’ He paused. ‘You’re scared of doing such a good job, you’ll get given another case like this, then another, until there’s no time – no room left – in your new world for us. That’s the truth of it and that’s why you’re scared.’

Madeleine couldn’t speak.

She watched as Nick eased himself from under her weight and took his empty bottle out to the kitchen.

‘Night,’ he said as she heard him ascend the stairs.

When he flipped the landing light out, and the hall drowned in darkness, she felt cold right down to the bone.

CHAPTER 8 (#ulink_14c49b92-cac8-5e77-8fd7-d2cc4914d992)

CHARLOTTE

I feel like I’ve been drugged as I open my eyes and struggle to make sense of where I am. I’m lying in bed, I realise, feeling the soft sheets underneath my palms as I reach out and run my hands back down beside me.

The vague shapes of the room slowly begin to come into focus and I can hear Iain in the en suite.

I try to sit up but I feel so groggy. I only had one beer last night despite being sorely tempted to have more. I try to remember if I took any of Iain’s tablets but really can’t be sure. I lean across Iain’s side of the bed and pull open the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. I see the box, pick it up and check inside.

How many were there before? Iain had slowed right down taking these, so he’d never taken the full course prescribed. I look at the date on the box. They were dispensed five months ago.

A month to the day of the accident.

Maybe I did take one and just can’t remember. I know I would’ve needed it last night, but I don’t want to ask Iain because I don’t know how he’ll react.

I shove the box back in the drawer and roll back to my side of the bed as Iain comes out of the en suite.

‘What time did you get in last night?’ I say, massaging my forehead.