Cassie is self-sabotaging, a dry sense of humour, a sultry melody, a sarcastic remark. She's a dead gaze, smudged eyeliner, a garden of withering red tulips, and... an addict. 

Etienne is indecisive, anxious, classically handsome, a teller of great stories. He's a smile that doesn't reach the eyes, a lit cigarette, an alternative rock song, and a bad friend.  

It all started when they were only six years old. And it hasn't stopped. It keeps happening. They weave in and out of each other's lives, with their strange connection to blame. Their bond is both strengthened and weakened by their shared traumas. Their relationship is a ballad about codependency and the electricity of first love. 

Their lives are an unmanageable mess that sees them dwell in the world of drugs, depression, and the multitude of young women being found dead in the Merseyside Area. They each must confront their faith in second chances, fate, and circumstance. 

                                                         ― ― ― ― ― 

 And he's somewhere in the middle. But you can also find him at the beginning, and he'll be waiting for you by the end. He's everywhere. He is good with ropes, great at sketching, addicted to pornographic content. He hates his wife, hates his son, knows how to avoid leaving fingerprints on his victims.

ON MOUNT EVEREST WITH YOU.

HIS thumb caresses a section of the rope before his fist closes tightly around it. Hard to the touch, stiff, difficult to manipulate. He stuffs it back inside his bag in a hurry. His gaze shifts to the rearview mirror and remains there for the following minute. His existence is reduced to an elongated frozen image. 


 His heart is pounding, his hands have a slight tremble to them. She appears in the shape of a silhouette that has only just turned the corner. His breath gets caught halfway up his throat. His right-hand trembles as it blindly searches for the door handle. 


 Her body is covered by loose pieces of fabric. A loose skirt. A loose shirt. Pastel colours. Easy to move past, to rip apart, to dispose of. It was as if she had unknowingly prepared for the occasion. Prepared for him. Her hair is loose, with some strands tugged neatly behind her ear. Easy to grab, to hold on to, to dominate her with. In her hands were the groceries that she had stepped out to buy. 


 He estimates that at least a week will pass before someone takes notice of her absence. An avid drug user. Not in frequent communication with her family. Known for angering the many dealers whose services she frequently requests. Is in close contact with various individuals of questionable morals. 


 Upon discovering her body, her death will be reported as a case of drug-fuelled gang violence due to the level of harm inflicted, and it will reach a dead end after the initial weeks of inquiries. Authorities will not feel apprehensive about the case. The majority of drug-related crimes are left unsolved in this district of Liverpool due to the uncooperative nature of its population. He can already see the headlines. 


 The streets are wet. His shoes sink into puddles, of water, of mud. Soon, he thinks, there will be blood. His legs move as if in possession of a mind of their own, one after the other, taking quick strides, aware of the sound of crackling leaves and splashing droplets that he leaves behind. He crosses the street, mindful of the many windows, of the prying eyes. 


 She steps inside her home, a brick building of a pale red shade, using her right hand to operate the door and her left arm to hold the two bags she'd been carrying. She is still unaware of his presence. Her attention is set on the key, on the melody blasting from her earphones, on the mishandling of the bags that threaten to spill their content. He can see the white panel door nearing a close. Upon closer inspection, carried out two days prior, he'd noticed the worn-down state of the wood, tarnished by scratches, with stains covering various sections of its white exterior. 


 He picks up his pace and places the palm of his right hand against the door to stop it from closing. Both of his hands are safely covered by black nitrile exam gloves. Have been throughout the entire handling of his equipment. 


 Her expression distorts into one of surprise, of thinly veiled confusion, marked by the hundreds of words that she does not say. Slowly, recognition begins to settle in, softening her features and altering her disposition. On her face, a smile. Small, sweet, timid. 


Chapter Fifteen.