Abel climbed the steps to the front door. He stopped, savouring the moment.
This was bliss.
Not at all comparable to the ugly act of murder using strangulation. Ginny died because he lost control. That was a mistake. Never kill with emotion. There was too much risk of making errors.
Like the bolt cutters he’d used to liberate Hardy’s wrists from the handcuffs.
Not that his prints were on them.
Cops would be on his doorstep if they’d connected him.
Or maybe they were. His phone would remain off until he returned to his car.
No, there was no reason for the police to look closely at him, nor Bradley.
It had all fallen into place.
Only one obstacle remained.
Melanie Weaver.
She’d seen him at the restaurant.
How she’d survived the crash was a miracle. She should have died with her parents.
Inside the cottage, a phone rang.
He swung the rifle to his hands and kicked the door open.
The fireplace was dead. Soaking wet. Abel swore and worked his way through the cottage to Vince’s bedroom.
Empty.
The back door slammed shut in the wind.
Rifle away again, he opened the can and poured accelerant over the bed.