In the public eye, mother was fine. She shared her stories with her adoring public, laughing at the tropes that she just couldn't resist. But that wasn't her.

Behind closed doors she was paranoid, convinced someone was following her. I was so glad to be away from her when I finally moved out, now that moment floods me with gilt.

Page after page I flicked through her stories, again and again. Somewhere there had to be a hint. She used to talk about how she took inspiration from the real world for her stories.

I tap at the window made me freeze. Slowly I turned, only to see a branch rocking in the stormy winds. I sighed, not aware of how tense I was. Whoever had interest in my mother had no reason to show interest in me.

I returned my attention to the books strewn across the table in front of me. Pages picked at random, pages chosen from wedding dates and birthdays. I don't know what she could possibly hide in her writing but somehow, I knew there had to be something.

My eyes past over a paragraph from her latest book, a description of the first victims kitchen. Square table with four chairs, the black counter tops, the sink looking out the window into the garden. I slowly looked around at the room from the book.

I grabbed the book and read carefully. The rest of the house was different but the kitchen was what mattered, that was where the sighting was. I read as the first victim stood doing her dishes and glimpsed a figure in the garden.

Was this it? Wad this her clue? I grabbed another book. Another room. I took the book in mothers bedroom. The colours were wrong but the layout undeniable. And just as I feared, another sighting.

I prayed my eyes were playing tricks on me as I glanced out the window. It was just a shadow in the storm, a shadow in the corner of my eye. It had to be, I told myself this again, trying desperately to make it true.

I needed another book, another clue. The living room this time. Mother refused to come in here in her last few months. She insisted it was too open.

I agreed.

I stood in the doorway, looking across the room at the undeniable figure at the window. My heart wanted to leap from my chest, I wanted to turn and run yet my legs wouldn't move. I was living one of my mothers books, and I knew how those ended for the victims in this house.

I realised then, mother was right to be so paranoid.