just in time, before I finish the sentence.
Alive.
I was going to say they were the last people who saw Katie alive, but I know that would have been wrong. Deep down, in my heart of hearts, I know with absolute certainty that my daughter is still out there somewhere. There's still hope.
“The cops don't seem to think they knew anything,” Annabelle continues. “They talked to 'em and then they tossed 'em. I'm sure they asked for an address and a phone number, but that'll be about it.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Like I said.” She taps the side of her nose, before grabbing a bottle of ketchup from the table and holding it up for me to see. “Sources. I've still got a few friends in the department. There are still a few good, honest cops around who don't mind leaking stuff to me.”
A shudder passes through my chest as I realize that she seems to be telling the truth. Apparently, the police really aren't treating Katie's disappearance as a priority.
“Personally,” she continues, “I'm a little surprised. Actually investigating what happened would be a real step up for those assholes at the police station, but still, they usually at least pretend to give a damn. Right now, while you're the only person who's asking about Katie, I doubt the cops care about anything other than ticking the right boxes. The police here are a little different to your friendly local bobbies on the beat in Shropley.”
I take a deep breath. The breakfast diner is unbearably noisy, but Annabelle insisted that we meet here this morning after I called her a few hours ago. The dregs of London's night-life are all around us, falling asleep or passing out next to greasy breakfasts, and the place smells like a combination of rain-water and stale cigarettes. I hate being in such an awful establishment, especially when I spotted a perfectly nice-looking tearoom on the next street, but Annabelle seems to have her routines, and dragging people to this dump is apparently one of them. I just wish I'd never had to call her at all.
“You said they pulled some half-dude, half-goat thing out of the river,” she mutters, turning to a fresh page in her notebook. “How does that work?”
“I just told you what I saw,” I reply. “Listen, please, I need -”
“I need to get a photo of that,” she says, interrupting me as she makes a note. “Sounds wild. Poor guy. Poor goat too.”
“It was -”
“So where are the other parts?” she continues, interrupting me again. “Is there a dude's head sewn to a goat's body somewhere? That doesn't seem as freaky. It seems more... funny. Am I a bad person for thinking that? Am I going to hell?”
“Nothing about this is amusing!”
“Sure, sure.” She makes some more notes. “I'm still sending out feelers about all of that. It's not the first time something dodgy has been fished out of the river, and it won't be the last. I have a guy, a source who -”
“Of course you do,” I mutter under my breath.
“A guy who knows about stuff like this.” She taps at her phone. “I'm trying to track him down this morning so I can go get his opinion. Most secrets sink in the river, but occasionally you get one that doesn't get stuck in the mud and ends up bobbing back up to the surface. It's usually 'cause of a failed weighting attempt, coupled with gas in the stomach.”
Suddenly she leans back and pushes her belly out.
“Have you ever seen a really bloated corpse?” she asks, running her hands over her stomach. “You wouldn't believe how the gas builds and builds in the -”
“I really don't need to know that,” I tell her through gritted teeth.
“If there's no natural vent,” she continues, “the pressure becomes enormous. Obviously it has to get out some time, and when it does, basically it sounds like the corpse is farting. I know that's an awful thing to say, but whatever. And sometimes the pressure literally forces flesh and meat off the bone, de-gloving the entire -”
“I
Skye Malone, Megan Joel Peterson