CHAPTER FOUR

The bell rang at 1:34 in the morning. Molly groggily rolled out of bed, accidentally tripping over her cat, who hissed and clawed at her shins.

"Ow!' She groaned, feeling the claws dig into her leg. "Toby!"

The cat, Toby, dashed under the bed, tail twitching visibly in the dim light.

Throwing on her bathrobe and yawning loudly, Molly began the short journey over to the door.

Pushing down on the intercom, she sleepily asked, not realising just how rude it was, "Who's there?"

"Erm. It's Greg."

"Greg?" Molly racked her half-asleep brain for a moment.

The voice from below grew familiar in her sleepy stupor as it answered. "Greg Lestrade?"

Funny how, in that moment, Molly was suddenly very awake. "Oh. Right! I'm so sorry…"

"'T's all right," He said. "Mind if I come up?"

"No. Not at all," Molly said, voice beginning to be frantic, as she rung him up. "Come on in."

In the next moment, she found herself in a frenzy. Running to the washroom, she took a look at herself. Pink polka-dotted pyjamas with a plain scoop t-shirt. At least they were clean. She didn't have time to change anyhow.

Change for what?

She grabbed a clip and twisted her sleep-tangled hair into something that looked, at the very least, tidy. Then she squeezed toothpaste onto the brush and quickly began scrubbing her gums.

For what?

She didn't know if she expected anything to happen. All she knew was that it was 1:30 in the morning, and someone was at her door.

Then came the expected knocking. Molly, without thinking, made a beeline across the flat. She made a quick check at the peephole, from mere habit, and seeing Greg's tired face, quickly opened the door.

"Greg," She said smiling. "Come on in."

The smile melted away, however, within a moment. His face was grave. She hadn't seen him this upset or angry since his wife left him.

"Oh, God, what's wrong?" Molly asked, ushering him to sit down on her sofa.

Greg's fingers traced a circle around his brows. "Can I ask you a few questions?"

"Sure," Molly said easily. Then she paused. He looked awful with dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed to sway on the spot from exhaustion. "Can I get you some coffee or something?"

Greg, with a slight grin betraying him, sighed, his shoulders deflating with his chest. "That would be great."

Molly nodded and quickly disappeared into the kitchen, surprised to see Greg stand, beginning to wander around, his eyes darting around the flat.

They were quiet the whole time Molly bustled around, making the coffee. Greg remained silent and contemplative, tight-lipped with tired eyes.

He looked around the flat. It seemed so very different from the previous two victims. Celeste's dorm and Shaelee's flat had been equally plain. Molly's flat, on the other hand, was quite the opposite. The walls were painted a light green, pressed photographs of flowers lined on the walls, with carnation-printed curtains. A vase with a small bouquet of white roses sat next to the sofa. The telly mounted on the wall laid under a table with a formal photograph of two middle-aged adults. Next to it, sat a framed photograph of a bridal party. Greg eyed the picture, trying to find Molly inside.

That quickly became yet another way Molly did not fit the same profile as Birdie and Paxton.– between parents, friends (or at least someone she was close enough to be her bridesmaid)- and enough time to decorate her flat, her lifestyle seemed very different from the previous two.

The kitchen and dining room were decorated similarly, girlishly with a few photographs here and there, with the pink, yellow, and light green colour scheme she seemed so fond of.

Once the kettle came to a boil, Greg and Molly sat down opposite each other at her small dining table.

"All right," He asked, coughing slightly. "First off, Molly, erm…"

Why was it so hard to question her? He questioned complete strangers all day, but then, when trying to help a friend, he found himself tongue tied.

Perhaps he ought to ease her into it.

"The photographs under your telly, could you tell me about that?"

Molly paused, one brow lowering. "You want me to talk about the photographs under my telly?"

He cringed, realising just how odd it sounded. "Yeah."

"All right then," Molly said slowly, looking as though she thought he was, perhaps, unwell. "My mum and my dad, taken on their anniversary the year before he died. And, erm, what's the other one?" She paused. "Oh, right. That's my cousin Emily's wedding."

"So you and Emily are close, then?"

Molly furrowed her brows at him. "No…not really. We made a pact when we were seven to be in each other's weddings. She lives in Liverpool so…" She faded. "Greg, what is this about?"

Greg sighed slowly. "You remember Shaelee Birdie?"

Molly nodded, trying not to remember the tragic autopsy. "Yeah."

"Well, her murder resembles a case I had about fifteen years ago," Greg said, starting to sway in his chair. "Celeste Paxton. We think it's the same killer."

Molly's voice broke. Just the idea of another girl mutilated in the way Shaelee Birdie had been was enough to make her squeamish. Softly, almost inaudibly, she whispered, "Why are you telling me all this?"

"We found his laptop." Greg said, holding his breath. He wished he wouldn't have to say this. He wished it wasn't true. "And there's an entire folder of you."

"No. That's impossible," Molly instantly said, closing up, water building up in her eyes. "I'm not…I can't be…I don't attract attention."

"That's what he looks for." Greg said slowly, after a moment. "Girls who don't attract attention."

At this, Molly sunk in her chair. "Y—you found his laptop. Don't you know who he is, then?"

Greg shook his head. "Anderson couldn't trace it."

Molly sat up again, and slowly started nodding, looking white as a sheet. "I feel like I'm gonna be sick."

"Need a minute?"

Shaking her head, Molly said. "I'm…no…'m fine. I just…I can't believe it. I haven't gotten any emails."

Lowering a brow, Greg sat back. That was unexpected. "None?"

"None."

"Huh," Greg said, making a note. "Looks like we caught him early. But, still, for your safety, we're going to give you a police escort to and from Bart's daily."

There seemed no certainty of how much good that would do – Shaelee Birdie had an escort to and from work. But they had to try something, damn it.

Slowly, Molly's chest heaved as she exhaled slowly. "So…he's…he's following me?"

Greg nodded slowly, watching as the woman across the table crumbled.

Molly lurched over the table, holding her head, starting to cry. "Oh, God."

"Hey," Greg said, leaning over the table, fingers brushing her hand slightly before retreating. "I'm here for a reason, yeah? You're not going to turn out like them. You're not. You're gonna be fine. We'll find him. I promise."

Professionally, he couldn't make that promise. At least not realistically. The odds stood against her, ten meters tall. That man evaded the police for years. He'd killed two young women before they were even reported missing. Greg had tried to find him once and failed. But this time – this time – it was different. He swore to himself no one would ever lay a hand on Molly Hooper.

XxxxxX

Molly felt like the last living specimen of some extinct species. She felt eyes on her at all times. Some of the eyes were apparent to her, police cars stationed in front of her flat, or on her walk to Bart's or to the store to pick up groceries. It was the invisible eyes that worried her. The idea that some man hid behind that bush or on the other side of the door, just waiting to kill her, never left her brain.

The paranoia was too much. She wasn't getting sleep. Nightmares awaited her every night. Images of being dragged from her bed by the ankles, of seizing uncontrollably while some man laughed at her eagerly lingered behind her eyes whenever they closed.

The police picked her up for work every morning, just as Greg promised. They called her mobile before buzzing into the flat, letting her know it was all right to let them in. They hailed a cab or walked beside her and led her up to the doors at St. Bart's.

Sometimes Greg came to escort her, and those were the days she preferred. He sometimes brought coffee and engaged in meaningless small talk to fill the freezing silence. As a bit of a change in pace, he walked her all the way to the morgue – normally the police simply walked her into the hospital and then left.

Constant fear soon became normal to Molly. She found herself afraid of every faceless stranger – could it be him? She cringed whenever her mobile rang or whenever she received an email alert – but it was never him. In fact, other than the reminder from the police, and the idea of being followed, she doubted she would even know someone was after her.

She still couldn't access records of any kind. Her bank account remained closed. She couldn't Even her degrees seemed void. Her Facebook account found itself suspended. Her blog disappeared. All mentions of her on the St. Bartholomew's website suddenly evaporated.

So, for two months, life went on in this manner. She woke up five times, at least, in a night screaming, frightening Toby to dash under the bed. A few hours later, she waited for the police to show up and escort her to Bart's, she'd greet them emotionlessly with her hands deep inside her pockets, and waited silently as they hailed a cab. She wouldn't look up, staring blankly at her shoes – too afraid to look up for fear she would find somebody staring at her.

Then came a day of work. She ran autopsies, kept the morgue clean, sewed up the postmortems, and recorded information all day long. She never took lunch breaks anymore. She worked straight through the day, and returned to her flat – hungry but unable to force herself to eat anything.

Perhaps because it was December by that time, (and as she was unable to pay her heating bill, the flat was cold enough for the windows to frost up from the inside) or perhaps, it was because she was always afraid. Either way, she always shivered.

As for Greg, he looked over all the evidence gathered from both Birdie and Paxton. He thought through the patterns, figured a mental map of how much longer Molly had before the perpetrator would start to close in. They had to find him before that. They just had to. He looked through lists of connections from all three parties, tried to find a similarity. A person they had in common. Who could it possibly be?

The lives of the three women were too similar for the man to have simply picked out a random woman on the street to follow. There had to be something. What was he missing?

Without warning, his mobile vibrated in his pocket. Greg took a brief look at it.

Hey, stranger, the text read. Remember me? – Abby.

Greg halfway cringed, but kindly replied. I think so. – GL

After he sent it, he realised that, though he intended it as a joke, more truth laid in the statement than he cared to admit.

He found himself wrenched from his thoughts as Donovan pushed her way into the office.

"Greg," she said. "It's been two months."

"I know."

Donovan began to walk slowly to the window, eyes staring out over London. "We still don't have any leads."

"I know."

She turned back to him. "But we do have Hooper."

Greg snapped to attention. "What are you saying?"

Donovan sighed. "We think he's following her. For all we know he could've planted us on this, and someone else is his new target while we're sitting here worrying over her."

Standing up, Greg began to gnaw on his cheeks. "She's the only lead we've got."

"Exactly."

Officially lost, Greg crossed his arms. "What?"

"If she is—legitimately- his new obsession, we might actually find him. He'll come for her. We can stage it and get him."

"Absolutely not!" Greg said, suddenly in a passion. "She's not some sort of guinea pig we can put in that position. He escaped the police twice – don't you think he'd know better than to show up at some set up? We can't let him kill again – and we're sure as hell not going to make it any easier."

"You're getting too worked up about this, Greg." Donovan said. "Get professional. Don't just let your own feelings get in the way."

"My own feelings?"

"You and I both know what I mean."

Greg shuffled back to his desk, sitting down. "I am being professional. I'm protecting someone who is very likely to wind up on her own autopsy table. And I'm not going to encourage that."

Donovan stared at him, daggers for eyes. Eventually she nodded and turned away. "Unbelievable," she muttered, noisily marching through the doors.