Chapter 3

My stomach rumbled. I was hungry. Mum offered to make me a bacon sandwich or scrambled eggs on toast, but I needed something else, something filling and bad for me. Scrolling through the many takeaway apps on my phone, I ordered a pizza. I asked Mum if she wanted anything, but she just said she'd have a slice of mine. I ordered a fourteen-inch one, just in case she wanted two slices. Screw the diet. The father I didn't know I had had just been revealed to me and, to top it all, he was a bloody murderer. I didn't care anymore if I ballooned up to a size forty. Though I would probably regret saying that when I was next stood in front of my floor-length mirror trying to squeeze into my only work suit.

The large pepperoni stuffed-crust pizza and a large portion of chips arrived within twenty minutes. In that time, the conversation between us was stilted. I went to the toilet and stayed in there longer than usual to marshal my thoughts, while Mum put my clothes into the dryer then went about making up the bed in my old room.

‘Why did he do it?' I asked. I'd already devoured a slice of pizza in three bites and was halfway through the second. Mum had placed a handful of chips on a plate and was picking off pieces of pepperoni from a slice of pizza.

‘I have no idea,' she replied. It was an honest answer. ‘To this day, I still don't know why he killed that little girl.'

‘How did you feel when you heard?'

Mum didn't look at me. She busied herself chasing a chip around her plate, scooping up the tomato sauce. ‘I felt physically sick. I cried for two days. I just couldn't believe it. It didn't make any sense.'

‘What was he like when you were going out with him?'

‘I'm not sure.' She sighed. ‘I thought he was a sweet boy, but, like I said, he was quite possessive at times. He also…' She stopped and returned to playing with her food.

‘What?'

‘Once, we were out in his van, and this bloke cut us up. His face just drained of colour. He went mad. I honestly thought he was going to tear after him. I had to tell him to pull over and calm down.'

‘He had a violent temper?'

‘That was the only time I witnessed anything like that in him. I just put it down to him having a bad day.'

‘Something must have happened to him for him to…'

‘Evidently, but I wasn't in contact with him. His mother made sure of that.'

I looked at the slice of pizza halfway to my mouth and threw it back down in the box. I'd lost my appetite. I needed a drink, not tea or coffee. I needed wine, gin, vodka, turps, anything to numb the raw emotions rising to the surface. Why couldn't Mum have an emergency bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge or a bottle of Stoli in the freezer, for crying out loud? I went over to the sink and filled a glass with cold water. I took a long drink. It didn't have the same effect as alcohol, but it would do. For now.

‘What did he do to her?' I asked, leaning against the sink and looking at my mum at the table.

‘Dawn, you don't need to know that.'

‘Mum, I'm going to be googling him tomorrow anyway to find out everything I can, so you may as well tell me.'

Mum threw her chips on the plate and wiped her hands on a piece of kitchen roll. She had a pained expression on her face like she was struggling to find the right words to use.

‘He kidnapped her from around the back of the shops in Winlaton.'

I felt sick again. I looked down and saw the water in the glass wobbling. My hand was shaking.

‘Did he… you know… abuse her?'

‘No,' Mum answered quickly and firmly. ‘There was no evidence of sexual assault.'

‘How did he kill her?'

‘Dawn…'

‘Mum, I need to know.'

‘I think she was strangled. I'm not one hundred per cent sure.'

‘But… why?'

‘Dawn, I've absolutely no idea. All this time I've told myself that something must have snapped, and he just lost his mind. I don't know if it's possible to do that; I'm not a psychologist. I can't answer your questions. I'm sorry.'

‘Did you ever visit him in prison?'

‘Of course I didn't.'

‘Did he ever contact you?'

‘No.'

‘Didn't he want to see me?'

‘I don't know. If he had asked, I wouldn't have allowed it. There was no way I would have taken you into a prison. Dawn, not having a father in your life didn't mean you missed out on anything. Me and your grandparents saw to that. We gave you the best childhood and upbringing we could.' There was real emotion in her voice.

‘I know,' I said, struggling to fight back the tears myself.

‘I was Mum and Dad to you. You were wanted. You were loved, and I am incredibly proud of you.'

I couldn't hold onto the tears any longer, and I started to cry. Mum jumped up from the table and came over to me. She grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me into a tight embrace. Being so much smaller than me, she struggled to wrap her arms around me and had to crick her neck back to allow me to rest mine on her shoulder. It was uncomfortable for both of us, but it was what we both needed right then. I suddenly felt a lot safer. I suppose it doesn't matter how old a person gets – they'll always need a hug from their mum occasionally.

‘Mum?' I asked, once I'd pulled myself out of her embrace. I grabbed a sheet of kitchen roll and wiped my eyes. ‘The girl, Stephanie White, she wasn't Mrs White's daughter, was she?'

Mum nodded.

‘Oh my God,' I said, stepping away. The tears began to fall again. ‘She taught me English for three years at school.'

‘I know.'

‘You went to see her on open evenings.'

‘I know.'

‘Did she know who you were?'

‘No. And I didn't tell her either.'

‘We knew about her child being killed. We all thought it was tragic. My dad?—'

‘He wasn't your dad, Dawn,' Mum interrupted. ‘He was your father. Any man can be a father, but it takes someone special to be a dad. Look, come and sit down.' She came over to me and led me back to the kitchen table. I sat down, and she pulled out the seat next to me and held my hands. ‘I know there's a lot going through your mind right now, and you'll probably be thinking all kinds of things, like if your father was a murderer, maybe you have some of that part of him inside of you, but all of that is rubbish. What made you is the way you were brought up. Me, your nan and your grandad made sure you had the happiest childhood we could give you. You're intelligent, kind, caring, funny, honest and loving. We instilled all of that in you. You are not your father's daughter. I need you to understand that.'

I looked up, but I didn't see my mum. I was looking through her, beyond her. ‘I don't know who I am anymore,' I said, crying.

‘You are Dawn Mary Shepherd. You're my daughter. You're going to be a successful paralegal and go on to have a family of your own. Whatever happens in your life will be down to you, and you have more confidence and drive than I ever had at your age,' she said, wiping away my tears with her thumbs. ‘The past only affects a person if they allow it to. You're not that kind of person. You never have been. Remember when you were eleven and you were bullied by that snotty girl and her mates?'

‘Lyla Morris,' I reminded her.

‘She tormented you for months. You could have allowed that to get to you, to turn you into a victim and let it ruin your schoolwork, but you didn't. We had a good talk about what you should do, and you went and did it.'

‘Not really. I elbowed her in the face.'

Mum tried to hide her smile. ‘Well, yes, you went the wrong way about it, but it taught her a lesson and gave you the confidence to stand up to people. You're a lovely, sweet, kind, independent woman. You're not your father.'

I went to bed soon after that. I was exhausted. It was almost three o'clock. I lay in my old bed, shrouded in darkness, but sleep eluded me. Mum was right. Just because my father was a killer didn't mean I would become one too. There was no scientific evidence to suggest a ‘killer gene' existed, and I was a mentally stable individual. I'd never expressed any killer tendencies… Well, apart from Lyla Morris. And when Wesley Bishop cheated on me with Rebecca Lucas, I had wanted to rip his tiny head off, but that's only natural, isn't it? I had absolutely nothing to worry about. I was sure of it.

Although, if I could find out exactly what had happened to Dominic, what had turned him into a killer in the first place, maybe that would lay to rest the ghosts currently setting up home in my mind.

I yawned. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had been a good day at work. I hadn't been with Schofield and Embleton long, but I'd made a few friends and was settling into my role. I was socialising more, and I'd even been invited to the annual dinner the company had every spring to celebrate its birthday. I had been chuffed when I opened the envelope to see my name on the embossed invitation. I was establishing myself as a valuable member of the team. Then, suddenly, I'd been hit in the face with the bombshell that had torn my world apart. Would I have to tell my manager and colleagues that I was the daughter of an infamous murderer? How would they react? Would they treat me any differently? Would I have to leave the legal profession before I'd even started?

I turned over and pulled the duvet high up over my head. I felt physically and mentally drained. There was a lot for me to deal with in the coming days and I'd need a clear head to do it.

Before I fell asleep, I remembered something Mum had said in the kitchen. She described me as kind, sweet and lovely. As nice as that was, she'd also described Dominic in the exact same way not an hour before. Maybe we were similar.