Page 59 of Death Kiss

Wear gloves. Try not to leave DNA lying about that might implicate you. Bring a camera. Photograph everything. Go home. Hide everything. Then go back and call the police. Only then, because they are way more involved than you think.

What in god’s name is this? DNA. Implicating myself?

Alarms blare in my head, warning me to call this in straight away. But if there is some kind of cover-up, what would I be letting them hide? It’s probably just some nut job.

I definitely shouldn’t go.

Yet I’ve already discarded my towel and pulled on my boxers.

It’s insane to get involved in whatever this is.

Hoodie and coat on, rubber gloves found, albeit yellow washing-up ones.

You could be being framed.

Camera packed, spare battery included.

You could go to jail.

I print off the address and the crude map. If this turns out to be nothing, all I’ve lost is a morning. If it turns out to be something, I might have my break. A break that comes without trying to force more information out of the woman I’m quickly falling for.

That’s the part that truly clinches it for me. A chance to potentially get both of the things I want. The story and Ellie. Even if I have to wait for her to travel and hope she comes back. This gives us a chance.

I’m out the door within minutes, heading toward god knows what.

The long, winding track opens out to a charming little cottage. From the road, you wouldn’t know it existed at all. There’s nothing to see but thickly gathered trees and overgrown hedges.

Pale skies sit above the one-story building, the sun not quite out of bed yet. A shiver runs through me, and I’m unsure whether it’s from the cold, anticipation or dread.

My camera weighs heavily in my hand as I switch it on, ready for whatever awaits. Plants dance in the early morning breeze around the picture-perfect garden.

Should I knock?

I cross to the door and raise my fist. The first knock sends the door swinging open. A wet, coppery smell greets me, almost like soil after a heavy rain.

Shit, nearly forgot the gloves.

Feeling somewhat ridiculous with my bright yellow washing-up gloves, I flick the light switch just inside the doorway.

My breath feels sharp as I step inside.

‘Holy fuck,’ I say at the sight that greets me.

A dead guy strapped to a chair in the middle of the kitchen. Fresh enough that there’s no sign of decomposition. Covering my mouth with my arm, I swallow down a heave. Robotically, I lift my camera and take a photograph.

As I approach the body, I note the injuries, of which there are many. The primary one looks to be a slit throat.

Where’s his fucking nipple?

Glancing around the kitchen, I spot it, sitting neatly on the dining table. A fresh wave of vomit hits the back of my throat, and I force it back down. I photograph that too, before spotting a note on the fridge.

They deserved it. You’ll see. Make sure everyone knows. The families need closure.

The families? Multiple? I think back to the map. All the crosses. Fuck.

Body number two is behind a sofa, on the floor of the sitting room. Seeing it makes me clutch the sofa and cough, desperately fighting the urge to flee.

Fuck this.