Chapter 39

LACKFORD, ENGLAND

Ryan studies the photo of the groundskeeper hanging on the wall in the side room of the church. He fishes his phone from his pocket and pulls up the sketch artist rendition of The Monster—Pinky Man, he reminds himself, adopting Nora’s rebranding of the man. The same man everyone thought was a figment of Ryan’s imagination. He holds a photo of the artist’s sketch on his phone next to the photo on the wall. If they don’t believe him now, it’s because they don’t want to. He takes a photo of the man.

He remembers that the church grounds have a small cottage with a sign for the groundskeeper. Could it be this easy? Will he find Pinky Man there?

Outside, the sky is darker now, threatening rain. He walks past an old crypt surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. The place is starting to creep him out. Should he call the police? Is he in danger? Perhaps. But Pinky Man could’ve had his goons give Ryan a beatdown or toss him over the ledge of the Palazzo Comunale. And before he rushed out, Pinky Man seemed genuinely terrified. What was that about?

Ryan reaches the small bungalow. The front light is off. He walks to the door, knocks. And it’s then he notices the door is ajar. It pushes open with the rap of his knuckle.

In the entryway is a small table with mail. Ryan eyes one of the envelopes and it’s addressed to Peter Jones.

“Hello,” he calls out.

There’s nothing. It’s a small place. Right off the entryway is a television in front of a worn sofa covered by a colorful yarn blanket.

“Hello?” he says again. But there’s only the sound of the wind from outside. He looks back out the door. Then to the kitchen in the rear of the place. There are shoes on the kitchen floor.

Terror spouts up from his gut. He walks slowly to the kitchen and slaps on the light.

He nearly vomits when he sees them.

A woman is on the floor surrounded by a pool of blood. Her throat’s been slit. The man—The Monster—is slumped on a chair. He’s covered in blood. And not only his pinky fingers are missing. So are the rest of his fingers.

Fear seizes Ryan at the sound of a man’s voice from behind him.

“Oi, don’t you bloody move.”