Morgan arrived at the home of Arthur St. John after acquiring the address from Gary, who was holding off on reporting to his superiors for no longer than an hour. This, as he’d explained over the phone, was just long enough to let Morgan in and out before the police could swoop in to make their enquiries, thus sealing off his access indefinitely. It was a dumb move on Gary’s part, but a generous one nonetheless.
The house itself didn’t promise much—it was a hideous terraced house with yellow paint peeling off the brick. The windows were covered in grime, and the door didn’t look much better. It left Morgan to ponder whether the man’s late wife had been the cleaner, and more so, whether Arthur himself had neglected all forms of self-care since her departure.
But hadn’t that been ten years ago?
Morgan banged hard on the door, wondering what kind of man to expect. He could picture a long beard on a pale, unwashed face. There would be stains on his filthy clothes and body odor that would take a lifetime to forget. All the while, he waited in the cold of this dark, quiet street to meet nothing but silence after his knock.
He tried again, and a longer wait told him nobody was home. It only added credibility to his theory that Arthur St. John had something to do with all this. He was certain the police would point the finger there too, but it would take a great deal of evidence to prove that, and Morgan wasn’t prepared to take a blind leap into something like that.
But he was prepared to find such evidence, even if just for the satisfaction.
Against his better judgment, Morgan glanced up each end of the street before sliding off his coat. His heart pounding against his ribs, he wrapped that coat around his fist and took a moment to collect himself. What he was about to do would void any evidence he found, but for the quick confirmation of his suspicions he was prepared to accept that.
Wasting no more time, he thrust his fist through the door’s glass and then knocked out the hanging shards. He then reached inside and found a grip on the doorknob, which he used to enter the pitch-black, silent house. It was funny—only a few weeks ago he’d scorned Gary for breaking and entering, but now here he was, doing it himself for his own reasons.
He’d remember to apologize later.
Right now, he had some searching to do.
Morgan started on the ground floor, turning on the lights one at a time in case Arthur decided to return home. What would he do then? Say he found the door like that and wanted to check on him, he guessed. What else was there to say? That he wanted to incriminate him using his own personal belongings, so he’d decided to break in? Not a smart move.
But he wasn’t wrong.
Although the downstairs rooms offered nothing, the room at the top of the stairs had much more to give. Morgan entered it in the same way he’d entered the others, and that kept him from being ready for what he found. The moment he laid eyes on the table in the center of the room, he flinched like it was going to fly at him. It was a brief hesitation mixed with the sudden feeling that he had to leave immediately. Only he couldn’t leave—not when the truth about Dusty’s fate could be right in front of him.
Mouth dry, heart pumping, he stepped toward the table.
What he saw drove icy spikes into his skin.
Photographs of Dusty covered the table. There were pictures of Tom too, along with photos of a woman he could only assume was Teresa Joy. Pinned to each of these were handwritten notes. Morgan pulled his shirtsleeve over his hands, keeping his prints off the notes while he held them to the light. It detailed their habits: working hours, when they entered and left their home addresses, and the worst parts, one single word beside each name:
Dylan: Drown
Teresa: Burn
Tom: Crush
Morgan read them and reread them, a sudden, sharp headache causing unbearable pain. It wasn’t just the anger that flowed through his veins, but a brand-new panic for Tom. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes kept returning to the word crush, until he dropped the notes and stumbled back, his spine hitting the wall while a part of him died inside.
Arthur St. John had killed those people, and that made perfect sense. After Dusty had been killed, Morgan himself had wanted to seek revenge and stop the guy, so that brand of justice was totally relatable. The only difference was that Morgan wasn’t ready to kill a man.
But Arthur had.
Oh yes, Arthur had killed twice already.
And he was going to do it again.