Chapter One – Black Widow

I have no idea how long I sat next to my sister’s grave that morning, trying and failing to ignore the fact I was surrounded by police officers — flashing lights, radio chatter, strangers in authority. Although I’d waited all morning for this to happen, the entire thing threatened to dislodge my composure once and for all, sending me spiralling over the edge of some cavernous drop I wasn’t even aware I’d reached. I closed my eyes, wanting the events of the previous evening to be nothing more than the deluded workings of an overactive imagination. I did not dare look at my fingernails. Despite much scrubbing, much swearing, I suspected traces ofblood could still be found there, mocking me, ready to expose all.

I deserved what was coming next, of course, what I’d set in motion. I wasn’t stupid. Yet, I equally wasn’t convinced I could turn and acknowledge these people, even if I wanted to. The concept of what such an act would provoke was willing to poison my thoughts — carnage, chaos, pandemonium, resulting in disastrous consequences I had nowhere to place. Last night’s unavoidable actions would shortly see me confessing to all, blurting out details of my murderous deeds to those who did not care for my welfare, or appreciate my fragility. Although everything heading my way was purely of my own volition, none of it sat comfortably with my logical thinking. It was a fitting yet unfortunate notion that this day would forever now signal a pivotal change I wasn’t convinced I was ready for. It was a shame — for everyone involved.

I glanced towards my niece, Eva, thankfully asleep in her buggy, blissfully unaware of the activity around us as two plain-clothed police officers calmly picked their way across the damp morning grass towards us. Their overly shined shoes threatened to become as tainted as the overgrown headstones that peppered this place — all of it left to the mercy of nature, my chaotic mind included. I hoped Eva would remain in her dreams, unaffected by what was about to happen. This event might therefore never interrupt her life as it was inevitably destined to determine the rest of mine. I sighed. There was nothing I could do about that now. Shit.

‘Miss Adams?’ My name sounded too formal as it emerged from a stranger’s mouth in a polite manner unbefitting of this moment. He behaved as if he knew me already, able to address me with confidence. He had no idea who he was talking to. I nodded, getting to my feet, fully understanding why they were here, uncomfortably aware of a destiny they didn’t.

‘My name is DI Lewis. This is DS Cavendish. Would you mind accompanying us to the station, please?’ the officer requested. ‘We were told you might be here. We would very much like to speak to you.’ They had questions. They assumed I had the answers. I stared at these men, their simple request nothing more than several they would make today, just another day, another crime. What would they say if I told them I wasn’t in the mood for questioning? No, thank you. Not today. I was glad I could not read their faces, determined they would not unravel mine.

I swallowed, nodding my head, offering a smile I didn’t mean, hoping they wouldn’t realise how fake it probably looked. They had the audacity to glare at me as if the blood I’d recently spilt was still on my skin, staining my clothing, damaging my appearance, never again able to wash away with ease. Yet, I couldn’t tell if such an ugly suggestion was merely a misplaced thought lodged in the back of my ridiculously unhinged mind, or if they could see the real monster I’d become. I wondered how long they would hold my gaze if I stared at them long enough, offering a flat smile, a knowing wink. What thoughts would be allowed to wander freely through their minds if I were to brush a stray fingertip across their controlled composure? Would they feel so calm in my presence then? It was their job, of course, to remove the unhinged from society, the damaged, the criminally insane. Yet, how do you begin to uncoil the mind of a freak? How would they uncoil mine? What did they see when they looked at me?

Ironically, if events had occurred in a contrasting way, if I had taken a different route, metaphorically speaking, this day might have become nothing more than an innocent, potentially pleasant moment for all. This unassuming cemetery was more than capable of creating well-needed solace, shielding me from thoughts I wished to keep firmly inside my head. This tranquil setting could have easily retained my niece’s carefree slumber, my sister’s grave nothing more than a comforting connotation to my swiftly unravelling senses. However, that was not how things were set to pan out for me today.

If this were a movie, the entire scene might have played out in slow motion. The evil villain receiving her just desserts, a justified comeuppance befitting of the unhinged person they had in their possession. Heavy hands resting on trembling shoulders, a flash of metal as unyielding handcuffs brushed immovable skin, blinding blue flashing lights set against a cloudless sky. I could see it now. As it was, this otherwise peaceful morning was lost to the reality of actions none of these people could possibly understand.

I had brought this all on myself, I know, inadvertently guiding the police to this very location, fully expecting the fallout from a deed I could never undo. The fact I assumed I was still in control was entirely misplaced. How pathetic. Yet, was I ready for what lay ahead? Ready for the next painful stepping-stone of this obscure endurance that I, at one time, called my life? No. Not a chance. And, if I was honest with myself; I probably never would be.

It was a shame I did not have the genuine ability to acknowledge the officers at my side, my thoughts already left to wander unchecked for too long. I thought of my poor Mum, forced to suffer in silence for a daughter whose mind had already tipped the scale of balance sometime earlier, her fragile granddaughter a mere by-product of actions wholly unmitigated. I swallowed, allowing strangers to press my torrid skull into a police car as they lifted Eva into another, the rest of the world finding this moment unimportant, yet those few seconds so very critical to me. It signalled the first day of the rest of my life. The first of many to come that would see the truth of Stacey Adams revealed in all her resplendent finery.

***

The journey to the police station was slightly imposing on my day, yet my entire body was too numb from events of the previous evening to fully appreciate what was happening. I’d initiated this thing entirely on purpose, making the very phone call that had triggered this moment in the first place. I closed my eyes, screams I assumed must have emerged from my untethered mouth at some point over the last few hours, still littering my deranged thoughts long after my voice had silenced. What did these people see when they looked at me? A killer? A victim?

I was led along a narrow corridor, not unlike my perceived mind. Dark, questionable, no windows here that might otherwise allow a glimmer of light to filter unchecked, nothing but closed forgotten thoughts behind closed forgotten doors — cold hands gripping my forearms in pursuit of a truth still too painful for me to admit openly. I probably should have been afraid. I might very well have been, too, had I retained the capacity for such an emotion. As it turned out, I couldn’t feel a goddamned thing.

‘Thank you for coming in today, Stacey. I assume you know why we have asked you here?’ A suited female police officer was speaking, too calmly for my liking, although she did not smile or offer any upbeat tone that might have confirmed such a reassuring presence. She was plain-clothed, probably a detective, an inspector, a DCI even. Dressed in a black trouser suit, crisp cream blouse, she appeared quite the stern image of authority. The police had done their job well. I was in custody. Precisely where I belonged. Not that they knew such a truth yet. I was only here to answer their questions, tick boxes, shed well-meaning light on the scene that had no doubt made them feel quite ill to recall. It was this poor woman’s job to uncover the real me, the unfortunate murder I’d ultimately failed to disguise.

I nodded, my voice eluding me. I had nothing to say. Nothing that would make much sense to these people anyway.

‘My name is DCI Moor,’ the suited woman offered, placing a folder onto a laminated tabletop as she took a seat opposite me. Of course she was. Such privilege I’d yielded, warranting the attention of a senior officer. I refrained from rolling my eyes as she regarded me for a moment, obviously pondering my potential involvement, the probable existence of unpleasant photographs sitting inside her blue folder — the blood I’d spilt still fragmenting behind my fingernails, in my hair, in my mind. Evidence. Proof. Everything they needed to lock me up, throw away the key, forget this day ever happened. Those photographs would not have made enjoyable viewing, I know, yet it was hardly my fault. I wished she wouldn’t keep giving me such a pointed look. I sighed, scratching an itch on my neck. Did it make me look guilty?

Although the detective couldn’t possibly appreciate what I’d done, there was nothing to expel the sickness that grew in my belly, a sharpness in my chest cavity that forced much-needed air from my lungs. Had things played out differently, I’m confident today would have become just another day. It could have been a rather pleasant morning.

‘I understand you made two phone calls at approximately eight o’clock this morning,’ DCI Moor stated, tapping an index finger against the cheap cardboard wallet, staring beyond to the hidden contents as if she was unsure when, or if, to reveal them. ‘The first was to a Mrs Janet Finch. I believe she is a cleaner for the couple who own the house.’ She checked her notebook, probably reading my sister and brother-in-law’s names for verification purposes. ‘The second was to a local taxi firm.’ DCI Moor raised her eyebrows, obviously curious by the taxi request. ‘Mrs Finch tells us she was dismissed recently due to lack of funds. Is that correct?’

I nodded.

‘She also confirmed Mrs Cole passed away a few weeks ago.’ DCI Moor glanced at me, narrowing her eyes, thoughts left to linger in a mind that had no idea why I’d chosen to call Janet Finch instead of them. I didn’t nod or offer any response. I had nothing to comment on the subject of my sister. ‘Why did you call the cleaner, asking if she could come to the house this morning? And why, just moments later, did you call yourself a taxi?’ She placed a printed sheet on the table, confirmation that they had all the information. There was no point in denying my actions. ‘Where were you going, Stacey? And why were you at the local cemetery?’

I couldn’t help offering a shake of my head. I didn’t mean to appear so shut off, so callously calculated, so cold. I wished she would get to the point. Say what she had to say. Get it over with. We both knew what she was thinking.

‘Please help me build a picture so we can understand your involvement.’ She pressed her lips together, seemingly wanting to chew her bottom lip, uncertain if I had anything to do with the tragic scene that presented itself to them this morning. ‘There appeared to be no attempt to cover what happened at the house. It won’t take us long to piece it all together. There is plenty of evidence at the scene, fingerprints, amongst other things.’ I knew what she meant. My fingerprints weren’t the only evidence I’d left behind. DNA and bodily fluids were hardly readily disguisable. I hadn’t exactly covered my tracks. Jason had made damned sure of that. DCI Moor continued. ‘The poor woman received quite the shock, as you can imagine. Can you tell us what you know?’

I shrugged. Poor Janet. She was a good woman. One of the few decent people I’d met in my short, pathetic time on this godforsaken Earth who didn’t make me want to scream in protest. Or at least, she seemed a good person on the two occasions I’d met her, one of those times being my sister’s funeral. Yet, that was hardly an appropriate day for frivolity or for getting to know her better. Again, not my fault.

‘It was the easiest thing I could think of at the time,’ I muttered.

‘The easiest thing?’

I nodded.

‘Regarding?’

‘The mess you saw in the hallway.’ It was hardly something anyone could have missed. My fingerprints were everywhere. Jason’s blood, my blood. Semen. A mess.

DCI Moor sat back in her seat, surprised by my choice of words. ‘So you admit you saw the body?’ She was writing something in her notebook, already putting words into my mouth, forming an opinion. There was no point in acting the shocked victim. Anyone could see I wasn’t.

I nodded again, the image of Jason’s brutalised corpse still swimming painfully in my brain. I did not for one second assume I would ever get it out of my head.

‘Can you help me understand how the body came to be in such a location? Because I’m curious, Stacey, why you would refer to a dead man as a “mess”?’

Because he was a fucking mess by the time I’d finished with him, that’s why!

I glared at DCI Moor, knowing this thing wasn’t going to be as easy to gloss over as I would have hoped. I hadn’t meant to kill him, although who would believe that? His death could not be classed as a mere accident, that’s for sure. I was unhinged, granted. Yet, my crime was hardly unprovoked. The man had hurt me, irrefutably. However, it barely appeared self-defence in nature, more self-preserving, self-fulfilling, and entirely self-sacrificing, in the end, thanks to that selfish pig of a man, who I would have, at one, time done anything for.

DCI Moor sighed. ‘Stacey, at this stage, we are simply trying to piece things together, place the whereabouts of the victim before he came to end up in that hallway, trace his movements. I know this must be a shock to you. Did you find the body there?’

I nodded. It was only a half-lie. I actually found him this morning, precisely where I’d left him before going to bed last night. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him, let alone move him. I was impressed I slept as well as I did, to be honest.

She stared at me, a knowing look in her eyes. ‘So why did you not simply call the police straight away? Why did you first call the cleaner, then call yourself a taxi instead of waiting at the house for the police to arrive?’

I didn’t reply. Would “no comment” help either of us? Did I need a lawyer?

‘What were you even doing at the house?’

‘I live there.’ Lived there. I glanced at DCI Moor. ‘I’ve been helping out. Since my sister passed.’ Why the hell did I assume the detective would care about such things now?

DCI Moor nodded. ‘We need to confirm the current whereabouts of Jason Cole. Do you know where Mr Cole is, Stacey?’ She already knew. They all did. They merely needed my confirmation.

I wanted to smile, my lips already attempting to turn up at the corners as she spoke. It was hardly appropriate. The poor deluded woman had no firm idea who the victim was as yet — those innocent smiling photographs lining the walls of his house not even remotely resembling the lump of pulverised flesh left behind on his now damaged wooden floor. I assumed she had her suspicions, merely needing confirmation, my clarification. It was unfortunate that Jason did not have any tattoos. If he did, Janet would have already identified her employer by now, the very question of his whereabouts completely unrequired. The poor bastard was probably now lying in a lab somewhere, a mere John Doe, his dental records of no use to anyone.

‘I assume Jason Cole is currently on his way to the morgue,’ I offered coldly, wanting to laugh. Why did I sound so sarcastic? It was a fitting end for him, I concluded, although an end I found no actual comfort in thinking about now. They could hardly blame me for the man’s actions last night and what he subsequently made me do to him in the end.

‘So, you’re saying the body is, in fact, that of Jason Cole?’ DCI Moor was writing again, her face expressing nothing of her thoughts, her emotions.

I nodded. She was good at this. Well done, DCI Moor. Well done.