14

Abi didn’t need bath salts or bath bombs to relax, but she did get some assistance from a tumbler of whiskey. After a hectic day, one in which she went from being a brave detective on the path of a strange mystery, to a scared woman humiliated by a barista, she was glad to curl up in bed and get some sleep.

She was out before it was dark and didn’t surface until seven the following morning, at which point she awoke to the sounds of a noisy garbage truck squeaking and rattling its way down the street. After making a cup of coffee and grabbing a bite to eat, she sat in silence and skimmed through her phone, first checking for client emails and dealing with whatever she could while in an un-caffeinated state, then moving onto her personal emails.

She was delighted to discover that someone had messaged her from one of the dating apps she used, one where she had been honest with her profile description but vague with her image, her face half-covered by a glass and her features obscured by sunlight streaming in from behind.

“StevieBoy83,” she said aloud. “Doesn’t sound very promising, but …” she made an appreciative face. “Not bad.”

His profile picture depicted a man in his mid to late thirties with graying hair and an immaculate smile. He wore a blue cardigan and had his arms wrapped around a large collie. On flicking through his other pictures, Abi didn’t find any of him with his shirt off, standing in front of a bathroom mirror, making a pouty face, or downing a bottle of beer in a busy pub, all common photos that men posted, all photos she hated.

She didn’t want a child trapped in a man’s body, and she didn’t want a “lad.” StevieBoy83 seemed mature, friendly, likable—a rare triple threat. The longer she spent on his profile, the more anxious she felt about opening his message.

What if he’s a creep sending me a dick pic, like the weirdos my gran keeps attracting?

What if he’s got the wrong person?

What if he’s a scammer?

Her heart was beating fast when she finally clicked the message, but she instantly settled down, a wave of relief washing over her when she saw the message was as polite, friendly, and normal as his profile had been:

I’ve written and rewritten this message a dozen times and still don’t know what to say. So, I’m just going to keep this simple—my name is Steven, I really like your profile, and I hope we can chat. I like to read and write, although I’m nowhere near as talented and experienced as you in that department, and I also have family issues—although, don’t we all!

She read and reread his message, at first smiling, then grinning, then laughing softly, her face flushed. She hovered the cursor over the reply button as her mind raced a mile a minute.

Of course! How could I refuse a message like that? It beats most of the other messages I get on here. At least you’re honest! I’m Abi. Nice to virtually meet you. So, what do you do, Steven, and who is that beautiful dog in your picture?

She scanned her message several times, checking she hadn’t made an embarrassing mistake, and then hit Send. For the first time in weeks, she felt excited, giddy almost. Men were a dime a dozen on dating sites, but good men were hard to find. In the beginning, she’d received dozens of messages a week and had been thankful for them. They stroked her ego, made her feel good about herself, even though the majority of them amounted to little more than monosyllabic grunts and unsolicited dick pics. But then she realized that the same messages were being sent to countless other women.

Contrary to what the bottom-shelf women’s mags suggest, men are complicated creatures. They are still human, even if their actions don’t always corroborate that, but once you take away their ability to approach face-to-face, to talk, to smile, and generally to show off their assets like a peacock spreading its wings, they are all very similar. Online dating strips them back to the bare bones, and once you do that then everyone begins to look alike.

Experience taught her that there were only four kinds of men on online dating sites.

The first kind was the most detestable, the Dick Pic brigade. The incels, the perverts, the creeps. They believed that the entire female species was secretly just as desperate and primal as they were and that all it took to win their affections was an unprompted and unsolicited picture of their genitals. They were clearly proud of what God had given them and believed it was enough to replace small talk, dinner dates, and foreplay. They believed their penis was a magic wand that could expedite them straight to the fun stuff.

The second group spoke in monosyllables, often approaching women with a simple “Hey,” followed by a “What’s up?” upon realizing they had their attention. This group, although harmless at first, could quickly transition into group 1 if the conditions (a little alcohol, a flirtatious comment) were ripe.

Then there were the copy-pasters. Initially, Abi had been very impressed by their eloquence and wit. They wrote long messages. They were funny, well-spoken, kind. But she later discovered that they were simply copy-pasting the same messages to hundreds of girls, and in many instances, they weren’t even writing the message themselves. This realization dawned on her when she replied to one such message and the eloquent, well-spoken gentleman turned into a complete numbskull who suddenly lost the ability to use vowels.

The final group were the serious ones, the ones that took the time to read her profile and send her a message to prove it. They were everything that the third group was, only genuine, and they were fun to talk to. They weren’t always perfect, of course, Robert had been a part of that group after all, but it was the best that online dating had to offer.

Abi watched her inbox for five minutes, waiting and hoping for a reply, but not expecting it. She was eager, but nervous; keen but shy. What if he turned out to be just as crazy as Robert? What if his next message was a picture of his erect penis followed by a suggestive smiley face, what if—

Her chaotic thought patterns were cut short when a reply landed in her inbox.

Her heart sunk when she saw that it was indeed a picture with the words “What do you think?” written above.

In that moment, she questioned everything she thought she knew about online dating, but then the picture loaded, and she saw an image of a dog staring back at her.

She had never been happier not to see a penis.

Abi prepared a response, but a notification on her phone changed her mind and her mood, drawing her attention away from the messages and towards the local news app.

The headline read, “Local Girl Massacred in Own Home.”

Abi recognized the girl—short, blonde, slim. Their relationship was minimal, passing—she lived and worked in town and Abi had bumped into her on occasion. The girl was young, fit, and very pretty. If the headline was to be believed, she was also dead.

Abi clicked the image of the girl and loaded the video. An apartment came onto the screen, and Abi recognized it as one of the old tenement blocks on the edge of town. They had been built for the town’s workers, before being converted into student flats. They were tightly packed—facing each other like lost guests at a wedding—separated by thin stretches of alleyways and tiny backyards.

The house at the front of the awkwardly stacked cluster was alive with activity—law enforcement, forensics, men in suits. Members of the public and press stood on this side of the camera, the hustle and bustle captured by unseen microphones as a reporter spoke over them.

“This morning police found the body of a young woman, Lisa Farrell.” An image of the girl flashed on the screen. She was wearing a bikini and pouting, looking like a model as she posed for the camera in front of a gorgeous Mediterranean beach. The image faded and returned to the scene; a reporter stood before the camera as the chaos continued around her.

“Police were responding to online reports about a viral video,” the reporter continued, her expression stern and unblinking, “one that depicted the apparent torture and murder of the young girl. The video, filmed by her murderer, was uploaded to Instagram and Facebook using the victim’s phone and account. It was seen by most of her followers within the first few hours, after which it spread far and wide. The video was eventually taken down, but it appeared on countless other social networks and file-sharing sites and is believed to have been seen in excess of five million times overnight.”

She paused for effect. “The details of the video are too graphic for us to go into here, but it’s believed that the killer spent time torturing her before killing her on camera. The young victim was gagged and tied throughout the ordeal and was unable to shout, scream, ask for help, or fight back.”

The video ended. Abi turned off her phone and slowly lowered it to the table.

“You okay, dear?” Her gran was standing in the entrance to the kitchen, concern on her wrinkled face. “You look like shit.”

“Did you hear the news?”

“About the young lassie?” Martha nodded and entered the kitchen, flipping on the kettle before resting against the counter and facing her granddaughter. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

“Tortured and butchered, they said. They posted the video online. Said it was too graphic to even mention.”

Martha sucked in a breath through her teeth. “They posted it online? Sick bastards.” She shook her head. “Poor lass. But, you know, these things happen. Probably pissed off the wrong person or shagged around too many times. Nothing for you to worry about, dear.”

Abi didn’t share the same sentiment as her grandmother. She didn’t believe that anyone deserved something so horrific, and she didn’t believe there was nothing to worry about. A voice in the back of her head told her that she should be worried, she should be terrified, because that voice was trying to convince her that Robert had something to do with it.

Was she one of the Victims?

She had to be. What were the odds of two killers living in one small town?

But if he did kill her, then why?

Did she get in his way, did she know something that she wasn’t supposed to know?

Did he get a kick out of it?

Am I next?

“Do you want a cuppa, love? I can put a nip of brandy in there, return some color to those cheeks. You’re never going to find a man if you look like a bulimic on Thanksgiving.”

“Gran!” Abi snapped.

Martha shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The old lady poured herself a cup of sweet, black coffee, cupped it in her hands, and remained standing at the counter, her eyes staring absently through the steam that rose from the cup. “This video,” she said slowly. “You said they posted it online… .”

“You must be kidding me, Gran.”

“Nothing wrong with a bit of curiosity, dear. You watch horror films, don’t you?”

Abi shook her head in disbelief, staring daggers at her grandmother. “A young woman was butchered in her own home by a real killer. This wasn’t Freddy Krueger. She wasn’t Jamie Lee Curtis. It was real.”

“You’re mixing your horror films, dear.”

“That’s not the point!” Abi said, throwing her hands up. “It’s a fucking snuff film, not a horror film.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” Martha sipped her coffee, watched closely by her granddaughter. She made a move to look at her watch, then at the clock on the wall, then at the counter. She began to whistle, stopped, put her cup down and picked it up again. “I just remembered that I have to—” she turned her attention to her granddaughter, surprised to find that she was already staring at her.

“You have to what?”

“I have to meet my latest online friend for a short conversation.”

Abi didn’t respond, she just stared, shaking her head.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be in my room talking to a handsome young man from Berlin, and definitely not watching a snuff film.”