Page 73 of Drowning in Darkness

“If I’m hiding from a sick psychopath, I’d at least like to do it wearing pretty underwear.”

Another set follows because variety is important, along with fluffy Highland cow socks that serve no practical purpose beyond making me happy. I briefly consider silk pajamas before deciding I shouldn’t bankrupt the man simply because I’d developed a questionable relationship with online shopping.

Satisfied with my additions, I move the cursor back towards the basket, only for a notification to slide across the bottom corner of the screen.

Update: Burnside Investigation.

My hand stills on the trackpad. Christopher’s surname shouldn’t have the ability to steal the air from my lungs, but it does. Even printed in plain black text on a computer screen, it feels wrong, like seeing a snake coiled beneath a picnic blanket.

I should ignore it. Close the laptop. Finish my tea. Instead, I reach for the mouse before common sense has the opportunity to object.

The file opens onto a photograph of a young woman smiling into the camera. She can’t be more than twenty-one; her hair caught by the wind and her face free from the kind of fear I’d started recognizing all too easily. Beneath it sits another photograph, taken weeks later. The same woman. The same eyes. A hospital blanket wrapped around her shoulders and bruises fading beneath yellowing skin.

I swallow hard as I continue reading. The file contains everything. Witness statements, medical reports, therapy recommendations, safe house locations, and progress updates stretching back months. There are notes that don’t belong in any official investigation.

Still refuses to sleep without the light on.

Favorite drink: hot chocolate with marshmallows.

Resumed university. Attending three lectures a week.

I stare at the screen before scrolling to the next file. Another woman. Another story. Another life that should have ended differently.

Each one contains details that no detective would need to know and no criminal would care about. Favorite flowers. Dogs’ names. The novels they read while recovering. Which therapist they trusted. Which nightmares still woke them.

Every file ends the same way.

Alive.

Not closed. Not archived. Alive.

The word sits at the bottom of each page like a promise.

I keep scrolling until Christopher Burnside’s name finally appears. His file is nothing like the others. There are photographs taken from impossible angles, maps covered in colored markings, financial records, shell companies, properties, known associates, judges, politicians, and enough information to dismantle a small country. Years of someone’s life have been poured into these pages, every thread painstakingly connected until an entire network stretches across the screen.

A folder beneath his profile catches my attention.

Current.

Without thinking, I open it.

My face fills the screen. My heart thumps in my chest, and my pulse quickens. My breath comes quicker. It’s a photograph James took outside Honor’s cottage while Charlie was attempting to sprint away with my sneaker hanging triumphantly from his mouth. I remember laughing. I don’t remember James standing there with a camera.

My pulse hammers against my ribs. The information beneath my name starts exactly as I’d expect. Height. Weight. Blood type. Injuries.

Then the list changes.

Prefers tea strong enough to stand a spoon in.

Favorite fruit: strawberries.

I glance at the bowl of red fruit with a frown.

Reads when she’s frightened because fictional problems are easier to solve.

My gaze lifts to the dual-use music room and library.

Sleepwalks. Would be safer in single-story accommodation.