Discarded by M. Hunter (the reading list .txt) 📕

I frown cynically. He’s tall, handsome, and confident; I find it hard to believe he’s ever had difficulty picking up women.

‘I was a late bloomer,’ he confides. ‘At sixteen, I was still carrying baby weight, had a mouth full of metal, and acne that could be used as Braille. At my secondary school, the girls outnumbered the boys, so there wasn’t an option to go stag at our senior prom. I was seventeen and desperate, and I ended up begging Veronica Gibson-Dahl to be my date. She was just grateful to have been asked by anyone.

‘And then it was like I woke on my nineteenth birthday and had grown a foot overnight, slimmed down, and the face is pretty much as you see it today. After four lean years of no relationships, things started to improve. I imagine you’ve not been short of admirers down the years either, especially since your books’ success.’

If only he knew just how far back my lean spell stretched! I’m not about to share any of that though.

We arrive at a café where I actually wrote part of Monsters, and when Rick suggests we stop here, I’m more than happy with the suggestion.

‘Did you always want to write?’ he asks when we’ve ordered and are seated near the counter.

‘I used to write a lot of stories as a child. Back before… before my sister went missing, we used to sit in the garden making up stories and telling them to each other. When she disappeared, it felt easier getting lost in those stories and the world I could create in my imagination where such evil didn’t exist. It probably sounds lame to say it, but I think those stories are what got me through my formative years. My parents would argue a lot, and sometimes it was just easier burying my head in a book or scribbling down ideas than actually confronting them. I don’t think I necessarily considered just how tough it was for them too – tougher probably, because they’d lost a child.’

I’m grateful when the coffee arrives, and am suddenly conscious that I’ve shared far more than I’d intended. I don’t know why but it just felt so natural to tell him.

‘Mum is so thrilled with her signed copy of the book, but she’s now requested I buy a second copy of it for her to read so that she can keep the signed edition in pristine condition.’

‘Oh, that really isn’t necessary. My scrawled name on the book doesn’t add any value—’

‘On the contrary, she’s already put it in pride of place on the mantelpiece; she even moved one of my old chess trophies to make space for it.’

I raise my eyebrows. ‘Chess trophy?’

He blushes. ‘Yep, I probably should have warned you: I was a bit of a nerd at school. Head of the chess club. I represented my school at several national tournaments.’

I decide not to tell him about my own brushes with a chess club. ‘I probably have an old proof copy lying about the house if she’s just looking to read the text and isn’t worried about keeping it.’

‘Thanks, but she’d never forgive me if she thought you weren’t getting paid your royalties. I’m a fan of your writing, but she’s like a super fan! I think your stories help her forget about the MS.’

I bite my lip, unable to resist the urge to please. ‘Tell me if I’m overstepping, but what if I came by to visit your mum at some point? I could sign her other books at the same time, and thank her for such loyal support.’

Rick’s eyes are practically on stalks. ‘Really? I mean, she’d be blown away by that. You wouldn’t mind?’

‘It would be my honour.’

‘Then I’m going to hold you to that then. Thanks, Emma, that’s very kind. You’ll have to give me a couple of days to make sure the place is spick and span, but that will be amazing.’

My phone is ringing, and as I look at the screen I see Maddie’s name. ‘Do you mind if I take this? It’s my agent.’

Rick shakes his head as he tucks in to the blueberry muffin that has just been delivered to our table.

‘Hi Maddie, everything okay?’ I ask, as I move away from the table.

‘There’s another large envelope here for you. Just like last time. Your name on the envelope, care of this office. I’m sure the envelope is a match to the one that came last week. Do you want me to open it?’

I gulp, but curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Sure.’

Maddie lowers the phone and then I hear her ripping into the envelope. ‘It’s a picture of a lad this time. Curly hair and freckles. I’ll take a picture of it and email across again.’

‘You think he’s a local lad?’ Rick asks, as he walks me back to my flat.

‘The other picture wasn’t of a local girl.’

‘Other picture?’

I fill him in on the photograph of Faye McKenna, but omit the answerphone message I left with Greater Manchester Police.

‘Who do you think is sending you these pictures?’ he asks as we reach my front door.

‘I… I’m not sure,’ I reply honestly. ‘One of the online articles made reference to Faye’s mum, so I automatically assumed it was from her.’

‘First rule of policing: assume nothing.’

I know he’s right, and I will my cheeks not to burn with the embarrassment I’m feeling. ‘Okay, smarty-pants,’ I retort, ‘who do you think sent the photographs?’

He opens his mouth to speak, before thinking better of it. ‘Can I see the picture of the girl?’

I invite him inside and take him to the image still resting on top of the kitchen table.

He stoops over it, studying every pixel. ‘Can you flip it over for me?’ he asks, tucking his hands beneath his armpits, keen to avoid touching the picture.

‘My agent and I have both held the image, and I couldn’t see any obvious fingerprints when I held it up to the light,’ I