September 24th, 1989. The day everything changed.

Everybody knows that my sister Harriet isn’t really missing: she’s dead. She was murdered. And everybody knows who the murderer is, too, but that’s a taboo subject in my family. If you dare mention my Uncle Terry in the presence of my parents, they’ll turn white as chalk and usher you from the room.

I was 12. We shared a room, Harriet and I. She was 15, she had long hair the colour of dandelions, eyes like cornflowers, freckles. She was painting my nails. Pink. We were home alone. The window creaked.

She laughed breezily at my start, “it’s an old house, silly, don’t worry.”

Then the lock clicked. We saw a face through the chink in the curtains.

“Hide,” she hissed, shoving me towards the wardrobe. I held my breath, nestled in amongst the shoes and old t-shirts at the bottom of the wardrobe. My nail polish smudged. She crouched awkwardly beside me.

“We need to call the police,” she murmured against my ear. Then a thud as someone fell from the window onto our floor.

“Girls,” it cooed. It sounded like our Uncle. But why had he entered through the window?

The hairs on the back of my neck were stood up. Harriet’s hand, tight around mine, was sticky with sweat. The wardrobe stank of her floral perfume.

“Girls, come out,” he chided. “Your mum and dad asked me to come.”

That piqued my attention - why would Mum and Dad want Uncle Terry to terrify us half to death by climbing through our bedroom window?

I squeezed my sister’s hand. “What should we do?”

She answered by opening the wardrobe door a fraction. “Why didn’t you knock on the door like a normal person?”

He had a big rucksack. His pale swollen face was pulled into an expression of concern.

“There’s a serial killer on the loose. I didn’t want anyone to know you were in. Your parents want you safe.”

He never mentioned that the serial killer was him. It was enough of an answer for us, though. We crept out. I wish we hadn’t.

“Come, girls,” he murmured, pulling us into a cuddle. He smelled like stale sweat and weed. He whispered something to Harriet. She paled.

“Katy, go downstairs,” she instructed. She sounded scared. I didn’t question her.

She screamed while I was sitting on the sofa. There was a loud bang, a yell, a slap. I burst into tears, snuck back up the stairs. When I opened the door both of them were gone. There was just a mess and some blood, some discarded cable ties.

I sank to the floor, hyperventilating. I couldn’t understand why he’d taken her away.

When my parents arrived home, I screamed, terrified he was back.

Not long after that the police found a girl’s body in his freezer, so badly bruised and cut and beaten there was no way to tell who it was. I know it was Harriet, though.