The Serial Killer's Girl

L. H. Stacey

Description

**'Unputdownable...a high-octane, emotional page-turner.' **Bestselling author Louise Douglas.

**'A must read- highly original, impossible to put down, tense, dark, absolutely riveting.' Mary Grand'Suspense at its best, set against the stunning backdrop of Holy Island. I loved it!' Amanda James'A well plotted thriller that is dark and deliciously twisted!' Keri Beevis

'A chillingly vivid thriller that keeps you hooked to the very end. Unputdownable!' Carol Wyer

Does a killer’s blood run in the family?

Lexi Jakes thought she could run from her past…she was wrong.

Because when her biological mother is found dead, with all the same hallmarks of her own serial killer father, Lexi knows someone is out for revenge, and that she and her small daughter, Isla, could be next.

Determined to protect Isla, Lexi travels back to Lindisfarne, the small remote island where she grew up. There, cut off from the mainland, Lexi hopes they'll both be safe.

But as the tide comes in and the causeway slowly closes, Lexi’s greatest fear comes true: now they are trapped with no way out.

Lexi will do anything to save her daughter…she is the serial killer's girl after all.

The Serial Killer's Girl was shortlisted for The Jackie Collins Award for Romantic Thrillers at the Romantic Novelist Awards 2023

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Policier
• Vie de famille
• Parentalité et Éducation des Enfants
• Relations familiales
• Soutien psychologique et conseils familiaux
• Mashups
• Psychological
• Women Sleuths
• Private Investigators
• Hard-Boiled
• Amateur Sleuth
• Conflict Resolution
• Thrillers
• Bereavement
• Women
• Motherhood
• Suspenso
• Dating
• Psychological thriller
• Domestic
• General officer
• Parenting
• Woman
• Psychology
• The Women
• General
• Grief
• Crime
• Family Life
• Suspense
• Death
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 27 avril 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781801625906
• Langue: English

Extrait

THE SERIAL KILLER’S GIRL



L.H. STACEY
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44


Acknowledgments

More from L.H. Stacey

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
For my amazing godsons, Matthew, Andrew and George.
You’ve all grown to be wonderful young men and I’m so proud of each and every one of you.
Each one of you is in charge of writing your own life story.
Make sure you write a good one… always be happy and don’t let anyone else hold the pen!! xx
1

I’d always promised myself that revenge would be sweet, that it would give me closure and that once I’d taken someone from him, someone he loved, I’d consider myself his equal.
Yet tonight I stand here, knowing how close my moment is. It’s a feeling that makes me both excited and anxious with a trepidation that’s almost too much – my whole body feels as though it’s turned into a huge mixing pot of emotions, all whirling around together, as a million questions form in my mind. Questions I’ll never be able to answer.
I stare into the night and imagine the ghost of my young, beautiful sister. She floats before me, gives me a sad, painful yet hopeful smile, with eyes that are now dull and distant. They no longer sparkle, and I watch the vision that circumnavigates my mind as she tries to speak to me – but sadly, I can’t hear her. Not any more. Her laugh was lost forever. Her voice a distant memory. And once again, my heart shatters into a million pieces as a sob rises to my throat and, angrily, I swipe at my tears, wish for the years we should have had, for the life that was stolen from us all and with an anger that threatens to erupt from my throat by way of a scream, I try to calm myself, knowing that right here, right now I’m about to get my revenge and, once I have, our beautiful sister will finally be laid to rest – exactly twenty years to the day after she was murdered.
Stepping behind the old, rusty fire escape, I use it as a camouflage, pull my jacket tightly around me and give a shudder as I try to get warm but feel the frost bite angrily at my cheeks. I have no choice but to bide my time, to wait impatiently, and like a child I begin to play a game with myself, laugh as the breath leaves my lips, fogging the air with an ephemeral white cloud, one that barely has the chance to dissipate before the next warm breath is released again. I watch it plume from my mouth and disappear into darkness. The chill makes me think of snow, and I roll my eyes towards the powder-grey sky in an attempt to look for the stars, and just for a second, I realise that a strange numbness has clouded my mind, and nothing feels real. It’s as though my brain hasn’t engaged, hasn’t admitted what I’m about to do and with angst my heart constricts like it’s held in a vice. My breathing suddenly becomes laboured. Bile burns my throat, and I take several deep inward breaths until the nausea stops and, in its place, I feel a constant internal trembling that refuses to stop.
Concentrating, I try to focus. I think back to the hours, the days, the years I spent studying what he’d done. The people I had no choice but to get close to, the forced friendships, relationships and the enemies I made along the way. Each one a necessary part of the jigsaw, one I’ve been slotting together for half of my life, learning just a little bit more with each new acquaintance I made. All the time wishing I could fully understand his reasons, or motives. I studied them and him and the calculated way he’d killed each of the women, how he’d arranged them, placed a red silk scarf around their necks, always tied to the left, and then, as a final act of control, the way he’d placed a small chess piece within the folds of the material. Each piece ranging from a pawn to a queen, depending on how valuable he’d thought the kill had been.
His murders had become a regular event. An apparent surge of power that had given him an adrenaline buzz like no other, until the day he made an obvious mistake. A murder that hadn’t gone to plan. One that hadn’t happened quite the way he’d wanted it to. And in his annoyance, he’d taken my sister’s body, and dumped her in an unmarked grave, a place where she’d been cruelly lost to us forever, and I wonder what it was that went wrong, why he couldn’t leave her to be found, like he had the others. And what chess piece he’d decided to award her in his final act of power.
Glancing down at my watch, I note the time, the date. The fact that tomorrow, like he does every year, he’ll demand an outing. A search of another area. Another day of him pointing to spots, laughing as the dig begins, only to shake his head, and with amusement, he’ll point to another area, another spot where the body of my sister might or might not be. And every year, I watch from a distance, wait, and hope that this year will be the year he takes us to her grave, gives us closure for what he did. Rather than leaving her cold and alone where no one can visit, leave her flowers, or whisper a prayer.
Looking up, I take in a deep breath. Try to remember what I need to do. How I need to be. What I need to emulate. When he hears the news, he just has to know it’s a sign. He must know I’ve copied his ways and that she was taken by way of revenge, and repeatedly I go over the steps, one by one, all the time worrying that I’ll make mistakes and even though I’ve killed before, I wonder what will happen if I’m caught. When I’m caught. Which prison I’ll be locked in. The thought of small places, locked doors, gates or restrictions of any kind terrifies me and, while I can, I take in huge gulps of cold, sharp air, allow it to hit the back of my throat as the breeze blows down the ginnel to hit me in the face and, while hovering behind the fire escape, I take a moment to free my mind, to look up at the rusty structure, at the way it twists around itself, with metal footplates that are far too old and weak, and casually I lean against it, feel it move and creak beneath my weight.
Hearing a noise, I look to my left, to a door in the wall. It’s a door that leads to the village shop. A shop I used to go in and I wonder if old Mr Wilson still owns it and how he will feel when he finds out that a body has been found, murdered in his alley, and with a wry sense of amusement, I try to imagine him on the local news in the morning, standing in the shop’s doorway, with its dirty, unkempt windows, wishing he’d swept the causeway, or created a window display that looked warm and inviting, rather than the way it has always looked with piled-up boxes all standing on top of each other, like a warehouse that sells everything for less than a pound.
Moving my hand to my pocket, I momentarily lose my concentration. Allow my fingers to rub against the pliable texture of the red silk scarf, the smooth ivory of the solid chess piece. A bishop. A stalwart piece for the one woman who stood by him. She’d always remained tall and steadfast to the end, and I laugh at the irony, look up to the sky and realise that my mother would approve of my actions. Finally, she’ll get the justice she deserved for the daughter she lost. She’s no longer here to see it but as I stare into the cloudless sky, I can still imagine her pale, drawn face, the way she used to rock back and forth in her armchair, or pace up and down the hallway. She’d waited patiently for hours. Then for months that turned into years, hoping her daughter would come home, and with every single second, her heart would break just a little bit more. The happy, vibrant mother I’d once known had quickly disappeared into herself. To a place where every birthday and Christmas was pushed into the background. A place where nothing mattered. Not until my sister was found. And in the end, she sat, broken, withdrawn, without any wish to live or function, in a world where she’d felt it wrong to smile, to be happy or to show that she’d moved on, just in case the world thought that she didn’t care. And in her final days, the days when she wished and prayed for death to take her, her whole life had been centred around watching the television, reading newspapers and scouring the internet, searching for clues. She’d been trying to prove that somehow, somewhere, my young, beautiful sister might still be alive. Until eventually, when it no longer seemed feasible, she simply prayed that she’d live from one anniversary to the next, for that day when, once a year, he’d walk free. A day when she’d watch the news with a strange intensity, watching the way he made a huge pretence of looking for her. All the time knowing that the day he found her, the day he gave her back to us, would be the last time he’d ever be allowed any kind of freedom outside of the prison walls.
The sound of a door slamming across the road brings me back to reality and I look up. Study her, the woman I’ve made it my business to know. She’s all legs and stilettos. Her bright copper hair falling casually onto her shoulders, where a Bardot-style top is worn, to reveal a long, pale, slender neck. They’re clothes made for someone much younger than she is and, impatiently, I take a step forward and force myself to wait and watch as she places the long leather strap of her handbag over her head, twists it to lie flat across the thin, tight-fitting clothes that would be more suited to a warm summer evening