‘I don’t know where you are, or if you’re OK. I’ve been crying for hours, worried that I’ve hurt you or fucked things up. I’m scared of my feelings for you babe, and that made me push you away but I didn’t mean to make you sad. Please get in touch. I don’t care about our plans for evil stepmother, I just want to know you’re OK. I’m here whenever, just please reply.’
Five minutes later, he messaged back. I was fucked up when you told me to go slower lol. Thought you were disgusted by me and felt exposed. Got angry – fell down an incel hole, fuck girls fuck being a nice guy. People are fake, you know? Thought you were fake and wanted you to feel punished. Lol I’m so messed up. I care about you 2 bb. Sorry for taking it too far, when I heard your voice I realised what a fucking idiot I am. But I’m working on making it up to you.
Genuinely disturbing, that insight into his mind. His willingness to punish a girl for not immediately embracing a photo of his penis was chilling, and I say that as someone who has killed six people. I’d be glad when this was all over and I could vanish from his life, retaining his pathetic dick pic as collateral.
We talked for an hour, me playing the part of an injured and shy teenage girl, him puffed up by my display of affection and keen to be my protector once more. I let Pete come around to the subject of hacking, keen for him to be the one to feel in control. As we spoke, he was telling me how he was working on the smart system, always using language I didn’t fully understand. I must have drifted off at some point. He’d left long gaps in the conversation as he figured out how to access the system controlling Janine’s house and, despite the importance of the task, the wait got boring.
I woke up at 9 a.m. with a start, my brain scrabbling around to remember what was so important about the day. I reached for my action phone and saw twenty-two new messages from Pete. Would they be about the plan or would they be penises? The first message was a photo of a naked cartoon figure, complete with a six-pack, holding up a gold cup. Typical teenager, Pete chose to communicate through memes rather than language. I hoped the image meant success and not an incomprehensible way for him to further expose his incel tendencies. The next message was a video, the thumbnail image blurred. I braced myself, and clicked play. The video was dark, and hard to make out. I squinted my eyes, trying to figure out the pale shape in the middle of the screen. There was a movement, a jerk across the object and then a small noise. That was it. I played it again. It was … yes, it was. It was a bed. And that movement was a person. It was easier to see the outline of the mattress this time, and the jerk had been an arm, or a leg maybe? Was Pete sending me videos of him sleeping now? Christ, this was not ideal.
Slightly alarmed, I opened the third message, which was an audiofile. ‘If you’re going, make the bed before, please. I don’t want to have to see crumpled sheets all day. Oh, and call the manicurist and tell them not to come until midday now. No, I don’t know who I booked with, probably Monaco Manicures – just find out, it’s not hard, Lacey! I’m going for a shower, tell the porter to ring when the delivery arrives.’
I sat there completely still, the imperious voice still echoing in my ears. It was Janine. No question. I scrolled back and watched the video again. That must be her asleep – I checked the time Pete sent it over – 6 a.m. And the voice recording at 8 a.m. Only an hour ago. The next few messages were photos of the flat taken from CCTV footage. The beige lounge with its ill-advised gold accents, like a DFS version of Versailles, the hallways, with their gilt-framed paintings of things that people who don’t care about art buy in an attempt to look cultured. Landscapes, horses, a few twee sketches of ballerinas. The kitchen was the only sleek space in the flat, with white cupboards and a marble floor. It looked like it had never been used. The dining room was an assault on the eyes – dark red walls, a fluffy rug underneath an enormous mahogany wooden table which was laid with a full dinner set. Is there anything more tragic than thinking a permanently laid table is the height of sophistication? As though a minor royal might pop in at any moment and be disappointed in the lack of dinner plates.
The photo of the walk-in shower was the prize for me. It showed a vast white marble room, almost the size of my flat, with a huge round shower head, a freestanding bath and two sinks under an ornate mirror. Behind the mirror was a wall which had been decked out in mosaic tiles showing nymphs bathing in a freshwater pool. A glass door from the shower led into the sauna, which was traditionally clad in wood.