The Temptress: A Novella

By Sarah Sheridan

In this clever new thriller by the bestselling author of Girl in Bed Three, a serial killer wants to quit—but it seems a woman’s work is never done . . .
 
Zoe is a journalist who loves cats. She also happens to be London’s most successful active serial killer. It’s not something she ever planned to become—it’s just that men always trigger her rage, just like her abusive father did.

Now in her late thirties, Zoe feels like she’s lost her knack for murder, especially since finding a promising relationship. But things get complicated when her estranged mother turns up. With all the stress in her life, she’s starting to make little slip-ups—and her attempt to retire from her side gig may not last long . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Jul 25, 2022
• ISBN: 9781504079631

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Ilead a secret, deadly life. One that I’ve never told anybody about, and it’s so much fun. I can’t believe I’m getting away with it. Honestly, some people just don’t want to see what’s right in front of their noses, do they? Although to be fair, I’m exceptionally good at hiding what I do. But I think the biggest factor that has allowed me to get away with all this for so long is my appearance. And how I sound and come across, of course. I mean, who on earth would ever suspect that the petite, blonde journalist with the beautiful face – Zoe Carter – is the one responsible for a string of murders across London? No one, that’s who. It’s never even crossed the lead detective’s mind, bless him. And to think, I’ve been doing this for twelve years. I’m a veritable pro at it. A highly qualified expert in the art of murder. And DS George Henderson is supposed to be one of the best. Well, he’s certainly met his match with me.

‘Oliver Wood is the latest victim in what appears to be a string of related murders,’ Henderson said on the BBC News last night. Honestly, his rugged old face looked so serious, I had to laugh. ‘His body was found in his Kensington apartment by his cleaner. Whoever is behind these slayings should be very scared right now because forensic evidence is mounting, and it’s a matter of when – not if – we catch the killer.’

Ha, I’d thought. You’ve been saying that for ages now, George. And here we still are. You hunting me, and me just going about my business as a journalist. And a killer. It’s the best game I’ve ever played.

And now, as I look up from my laptop and out of the café window at the police tape across the street, I think, I’m too good for you all. You’ll never catch me, try as you might.

If people knew what I did, they might not believe that I’m actually a really nice person. But I am. I love cats, and my moggy Marilyn is my life. I adore her; I couldn’t live without her. I’m always buying her new collars and toys, grooming her, and giving her cuddles – when she wants them. The best thing about Marilyn is that she’s very self-sufficient. She needs a lot of personal space and so do I, which is why we work so well together. In fact, I love cats so much that I support two charities every month: the Cats Protection Society and Paws Welfare Trust. Also, I love nature, particularly flowers; they are the most beautiful things in the world. So pure and colourful. So really, I’m not a nasty person at all. I don’t kill because of that. I do it because people have wronged me and that makes me angry. Furious, actually. Utterly enraged. And the fact that I enjoy what I do… well, you have to take pride in your work, don’t you?

I love returning to the scene of my crimes, and watching the police and the forensic team dither about, trying to make sense of everything that’s gone on. Luckily, there’s a darling little café right opposite the grand Victorian apartments where Oliver lived, and I’ve been sitting here for an hour, watching the media crews reporting relentlessly. Oh, and I’ve had a latte and a rather lovely avocado salad with balsamic dressing too. Worth coming back here just for a spot of lunch. I must remember this place in the future.

I mean, Oliver was so much fun to be with at first. Two years younger than me at thirty-five – deliciously handsome, mega successful, and into fine food and drink; we had so much in common. We had some great dates: we went to The Ivy for dinner, spent a weekend at The Ritz, popped over to Dubai for some autumn sunshine, and he even took me to Chipping Norton to meet his mum, Patricia. She makes a superb cup of tea and her homemade shortbread is to die for. Although neither of them did die. Not that day anyway…

But then, like the five others before him, Oliver made the biggest mistake of his life. It was such a shame in a way, as I was really beginning to like him. But he disrespected me, so he had to go. And I enjoyed every minute of his demise, as I had with the others. Oh, the whole thing was beautiful; so painful yet wonderfully sublime. Watching the life go out of his eyes was blissful. Probably my favourite so far, I think, providing me with the psychological gratification that I need in order to thrive. I’ve researched serial killers, it’s one of my passions to do that actually. I want to know what other people get out of killing. I sure as hell know what I get out of it. And I know that I’m one of the best. Females are statistically more successful at murder than males anyway. Not bragging, it’s just a fact. I’m always tempted to video their last moments with my phone, but let’s face it, I’ve researched the subject enough to know that only amateurs leave digital forensic evidence behind.

Of course, the police haven’t questioned me because no one knows that Oliver and I were seeing each other. He was married, like they all are. His Kensington apartment was just his London work pad, while his wife and kids lived back home in their country pile in the Cotswolds. I always make sure that my men don’t take any photos of me. I won’t have it, and they’re so desperate to keep the affair going that they agree to anything I want. I introduce myself to each one using a different name, so they never know my real identity anyway. So far I’ve been Natasha, Eve, Chloe, Maria, Brianna and Jacqueline. My journalistic name is Zoe Carter and my real name is Zoe Sanders, and I no longer look like I did when all the media photos I use were taken, so not one of my six victims has ever put two and two together and clocked that I’m that freelance writer. I used to have long, dark-blonde hair and now I have a platinum bob. And I’ve had many hairstyles in between. Honestly, men can’t get enough of the platinum; they go increasingly mad for me the blonder I get.

If they ask what I do for a job, I say different things. So far, I’ve been a shop manager, an out of work actress, a gardener, a teacher, a dental assistant and a librarian. The fact that these men are all married helps enormously, because they are trying to keep our affair even more secret than I am. And they’re so focused on the sex that they’re not that interested in me as a person, and what I do or where I come from. And – being totally honest – I’m really good in the bedroom department so it’s easy to keep them distracted. Let’s face it,