The Killer's Home

The Killer’s Home AJ Carter Copyright © 2023 by Papyrus Publishing LTD. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below. [email protected] Contents The Killer’s Home Prologue 1. Present Day 2. Before 3. Present Day 4. Before 5. Present Day 6. The Unfound Diary of a Dead Girl 7. Before 8. Present Day 9. Before 10. Present Day 11. Before 12. Present Day 13. Before 14. The Unfound Diary of a Dead Girl 15. Present Day 16. Before 17. Present Day 18. Before 19. Present Day 20. Before 21. Present Day 22. The Unfound Diary of a Dead Girl 23. Before 24. Present Day 25. Before 26. Present Day 27. Present Day 28. Present Day 29. Present Day 30. The Unfound Diary of a Dead Girl 31. Present Day 32. Present Day About the Author Dedication For my wife, who keeps my dreams alive. For my daughter, who inspires me to dream bigger. For my dog, who farts in her sleep. The Killer’s Home by AJ Carter Prologue The Unfound Diary of a Dead Girl 24th June 2004 Dear Diary, It’s hard to write in the dark. Mum and Dad are in bed, and they don’t like me staying up too late because I’ll sleep in and miss school. I don’t know why they can’t just give me my independence. I’m almost sixteen now, so it’s time they started treating me like an adult. Just like he does. It’s normal to fantasise about a man a little older than me, isn’t it? Someone I barely know who’s handsome and in great shape? I’m telling you, if those shining brown eyes don’t get my juices flowing, then his cheeky smile definitely does. I’d better watch what I say because if someone decides to read this, then I’ll be in big trouble. So will he, I guess. Although he hasn’t technically done anything with this minor yet. All we did was meet and talk. He asked my name, and I told him. I asked for his, and he told me. I won’t write it here so I can protect him if the police come sniffing around. Not that I can see that happening, but it’s better to be safe. Anyway, it’s getting late. I just wanted to confess my undying love before bed. Before I drift into a deep sleep and dream only of him. My incredibly handsome new friend who, if I’m lucky, will be my boyfriend as soon as I turn sixteen. If I’m lucky. Night-night, Tiffany Chapter 1 Present Day I gaze around at the sea of impatient faces. They’re murmuring among themselves, and I can tell they’re talking about him. They’re frowning as they study their watches, while others start to wonder why they even bothered attending in the first place. I wonder that, too. It’s not like I wanted to disappoint them. I’ve been working at St George Library for almost ten years now, and not once has an author missed a signing. Needless to say, this would frustrate me at the best of times, but I’m already struggling to raise funds for the new computers – a task that seems impossible when the writers don’t bother to arrive. But that’s not even the worst thing. See, I have a more vested interest in making tonight go smoothly. The author is my husband, and every last person in this room knows it. Perhaps that’s why they’re looking at me like I’m the problem. As if I have any say in what Ben does. And to be honest, if I had that sort of control, then I might start by patching up some holes in our marriage. Priorities, eh? I take another look at the clock on the far wall. We were supposed to begin twenty minutes ago, starting with a short reading, then moving on to a Q & A before finally lining up the hungry new readers who are desperate to get Ben’s tenth crime novel signed. But five people have left already, and less than twenty now remain. ‘Excuse me,’ a meek voice says from the front row of seats. It belongs to someone I went to school with, though I can’t remember her name to save my life. I just recognise the flat face and the big, bug-like eyes hidden behind too-big glasses. ‘Should we call it a day?’ ‘No, don’t do that,’ I say, panicking when others sit up to listen for my answer. Then an idea occurs to me. Not a great one, but something is better than nothing. ‘Why don’t I try calling him again? If he doesn’t answer, I’ll just do the reading myself and then hand-deliver your signed copies. How does that sound?’ There are some semi-satisfied grunts in the crowd but not an ounce of gratitude. To be honest, it doesn’t bother me. I’m still worried about where Ben might be – if he’s drunk himself into another hole or gone out and done something stupid. I’m doing all I can to bury my anger in the pit of my stomach, but it burns there like a raging fire. ‘Oh, Ben,’ I mumble into my phone at the back of the room. My disappointment in him grows with each unanswered ring. Our marriage has been rocky for a while now, but he promised he would make it tonight. I even asked for a confirmation when I left for work this morning, but he just snapped at me for pestering him. Typically, I’m the bad guy. Now I’m stuck here with twenty impatient neighbours and a handful of books the library really couldn’t afford to