The Past We Run From: A Yorkshire Murder Mystery (DI Daniel Ward Crime Thrillers Book 1) by Meg Jolly

Author:Meg Jolly [Jolly, Meg]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eldarkin Publishing
Published: 2021-03-30T16:00:00+00:00

HE HAD NEVER IMAGINED Michael Green would be sat in his kitchen. The man cocked his head. Nerves fought through him, tangling with each other. The rush of excitement, the thrill of the random chance, the fear of discovery—and a fascinated yet instinctive abhorrence of the monster before him.

It was hard not to think of Sarah Farrow. Of what she had suffered at Green’s hands, hands that were now tied before him with several cable ties. He had laid those very same hands upon the girl. His eyes, now closed, had beheld her in her dying moments. Had he put that mouth upon her too? Had he touched her in other ways? Likewise, now, it was hard not to think of poor Millie Thompson, who was now tied up in this monster’s enduring and horrific legacy.

The man’s skin crawled. He longed to wash himself in the bleach standing ready on the kitchen counter behind him at the fact he had just had to endure so much close contact with Michael Green.

‘Michael,’ he crooned, leaning closer. ‘Michael... Wake up.’

Green did not respond. The man slapped him across the face. His palm stung from it. He hoped Green’s face felt worse.

Green groaned. The man tossed a cup of cold water across him, and that made Green gasp with the shock of it. Green’s eyes blinked open, bleary at first, and then coming into focus. They centred on the man.

‘Who are you?’ Green asked. His tongue darted out to wet his lips.

‘All in good time, Michael.’ The man smiled.

Green’s stomach flipped at that smile—how cold, calculating, and vicious it looked. His head throbbed where the man had incapacitated him, and his mouth felt thick and heavy. ‘What do you want?’

As Green glanced around the unfamiliar kitchen, pale walls, pale tiles, aged eighties cupboards—and saw the array of kitchen knives upon the table. They gleamed. Mismatched sizes and handles—but he did not want to know if they had been freshly sharpened. He tugged his hands, before realising he could not part or move them, or anything in fact, for he had been restrained to the chair with cable ties and gaffer tape, with his hands strapped to the table. Crude, but affective. When he pulled, nothing happened. Panic spiked.

‘I want you to pay for what you’ve done, Michael,’ the man said evenly, shifting his weight until he could reach that neat line of knives and nudge one into place where it rested, out of parallel with the others.

‘I haven’t done anything,’ Green said quickly. ‘I don’t know what this is, but I haven’t done anything. I didn’t take that little girl.’ He struggled against his bonds, but the most he could do was shift the chair with a creak across the floor by an inch, if that.

The man’s smile only deepened, and in the poor light of the single overhead bulb, the glint in his eye looked ferocious. ‘Oh, but you did, Michael. This is all your fault... and we both know whether the police get you for it or not, you won’t pay.

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