Small Secrets by Lucy Goacher

Author:Lucy Goacher [Goacher, Lucy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-10-16T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 11

The most disturbing thing about the farmhouse in Foxbridge was how ordinary Anna Farley looked on that sofa. Despite the colourless skin, the congealed blood, and the deep wounds in her chest, she still looked like the girl from the missing posters. She was recognisable as a person.

The video of Frankenstein’s Tea Party is the opposite.

Hunched over on a bench in Battersea Park, I let the video loop on the screen, searching for the worst, most horrific parts, even though my brain begs me not to. I can’t help it.

Eyes that point in different directions flashing in the torchlight.

An arm made of three flesh tones.

The deep, jagged crosses of thread that puncture the skin – the skin itself tearing away, little by little. Oozing.

Five figures at the table, all just as butchered as the others.

I don’t want it to be real, but it is. The bodies, the horror done to them, the table with its cute little tea party cake stand. It’s there, exactly like it should be.

Just like all the other Mimic murders.

Nate calls me, and I answer.

‘Curtis was right, wasn’t he?’ he says breathlessly. ‘The killer’s escalating. Five victims. Dismemberment. The staging. It’s a classic. He’s really gone for it this time.’

‘Yeah.’ I can’t think of any other words.

‘I can’t believe he did this one. Do you think it’s more than one person? Multiple killers working together? Or one guy with a lot of planning? I just looked up the industrial estate where it happened. That factory’s been empty for years. He could easily have got a generator and a couple of freezers and taken his time there. He might have been working on this for a while. Are you on your way back? We need to record about this now. We can break the news ourselves if we’re quick enough. And it’s another one from our podcast, too. Should I tweet about it? Get ahead of everything? Stevie? Can you hear me? Hello?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Are you okay?’

Am I? I’m not squeamish, but I feel nauseous. My heart is pounding.

‘I . . . can’t talk right now. I’ll be home soon.’

I hang up and force myself back on to my shaky feet, aiming for home – but I can’t outrun the anxiety pulsing in my chest. I flick back to the video and play it again, my hands cupping the horrors on the screen.

Five victims, just like the original. Dismembered and put back together, just like the original. Placed around a table with food on it, just like . . .

No. Not like the original.

I find the old charcoal newspaper drawing on Google: five women around an empty table. I check the text: an empty table.

So why has this one got a cake stand on it?

My phone rings again.

‘Logan?’

‘Can’t talk long,’ he says, his voice low. ‘Need to tell you something.’

‘Is this about those bodies in Birmingham? Nate just sent me the video. Did you know about this before? It’s Mimic again, it’s—’

‘Stevie, listen. I talked to a

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