42
Suzanne Corrigan could feel her heart in her mouth as she held the envelope in front of her. She’d recognised the handwriting straight away. It was the same type of envelope as before — cream, half-A5, mottled and with the stamp perfectly aligned with the corners. Just seeing her name written in his handwriting was enough to send a chill down her spine.
Her first instinct was to put it down and go and tell her editor, but she knew she couldn’t do that. The police had asked her not to. They needed to keep this under wraps for now, they said. At the same time, the envelope stuck to her hand like an industrial magnet, begging her to open it.
She knew she shouldn’t. She knew she should take it straight to the police, but she also knew that if she did that she’d never know what was inside
