Page 86 of My Killer Blind Date

Liam Porter is a professional investigator. He was looking for Zoe. I need him to tell me everything he knows. He’s been on the case for longer than I have. Maybe he can help me find her killer. Maybe I don’t have to do it alone.

My Uber pulls up within minutes. As we speed along, I stare out the window, scenes from the morning flashing through my head. The smother of guests. The odor of the flowers. Tim’s account of how Zoe brought Child Protective Services to their door.

Then, the complete shift about Liam, casting everything in a new light. My judgment didn’t suck. My instincts weren’t shit. My boyfriend, which I guess he still is since we technically didn’t break up, is innocent. I should be jubilant.

Instead, I feel like I’m about to explode into a million pieces.

To steady myself, I pull out my phone and doomscroll for a while. Then I remember the video Colby AirDropped. I pull it up and press play.

Immediately the screen is a chaos of color and blurry movement. Then the audio comes through, crystal clear – Zoe’s voice.

‘Shame on you! Shame on you for being haters! What’s wrong with you people? Nothing better to do than prey on the vulnerable? You know what? Fuck all of you! This is going on TikTok, and I’m tagging every single one of you women-hating assholes!’

I bite back tears. Obviously the video isn’t pleasant or nice. But Zoe – her energy is palpable. Like she’s right here.

Indistinct cries of ‘Baby killers!’ and ‘God will judge you!’ come from the background, and then the camera starts panning the faces of the actual protestors.

Zoe’s voice comes through again. ‘Every one of your faces is going on the fucking internet! You’re gonna be celebrities! Congratulations!’

It flashes past face after face – oh my God. Was that …?

I pause the video and drag it back. Then, I pause it again on one of the protesters. She wears a reddened grimace on her face and holds a sign that reads, Murderers! Burn in hell!

‘Fuck,’ I whisper with a laugh, or a sob, because I know this woman. It’s Kayleigh Aimes. Plushie maker. Pro-lifer. She did meet Zoe. Or at least, they were in a brief shouting match. The proof is right in my hands.

It’s like everything comes into focus all at once. The painting Life may be about Colby – but it’s also about Kayleigh, the shadowy figure throttling her. And the serial killer’s first victim.

If Life is about Kayleigh and Skin is about Crystal … I try to unpick the timeline. Kayleigh went missing eighteen months ago. Crystal, twelve months ago. Simon accepted Kayleigh’s painting into the gallery over a year ago. Who knows when Zoe completed the second painting, but definitely before she disappeared. Perhaps she’d just finished it when she was kidnapped and her studio ransacked. Zoe could have painted these shortly after each of the women went missing. Perhaps she was raising awareness about the rise in violence against women? Is that why she was targeted? Or was she making some political commentary that pissed the wrong person off?

I bite my lip. In the end, she didn’t finish the series. There were supposed to be four paintings. Did the killer have a reason to shut it down?

The Uber driver pulls up in front of Liam’s building. I jump out, forcing myself to switch gears.

I buzz his unit.

And then, an answering buzz comes. The door unlocks and I push inside.

All the tension that’s been building since I first met Liam is coiled within me, propelling me up the stairs. I take them two by two.

I get to Liam’s floor and stop, breathing heavily from the effort. He’s there standing in the door, waiting for me, still in his nice pants from the memorial, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled up. Last time I saw him, I publicly accused him of being a murderer. For all I know, he’s pissed as hell.

‘You lied to me,’ I heave out. ‘You’re a PI.’

Chapter Twenty-nine

‘I wanted to tell you,’ Liam says, ‘but I was under NDA.’ He glances around at his neighbors’ doors. ‘Let’s move this inside.’

I follow him in. My heart is thundering.

He closes the door behind us. I plant my feet and cross my arms, not willing to move further into the apartment.

‘I’m so mad at you,’ I say, blinking back tears.

‘And I take full ownership of—’

‘Do you have any idea how stressful it was to date you when I thought you were a killer? And then how much whiplash I went through when I decided you weren’t, and then you were?’

‘I—’