McKenzie, grim-faced, crouched beside the remains, his gaze methodically sweeping the dank cellar. With a latex-gloved hand, he gingerly lifted a slab of mouldering peach peel to expose a skeletal hand – its pallor ghostly beneath the SOCOs’ portable lamps. 

“It’s her,” I choked out, knees buckling like a marionette with its strings slashed. “Ramona.” 

Rafayel’s arm snapped out, catching me mid-collapse. “Steady on, Les. Let’s not jump the gun—proper ID comes first.” 

“How'd you know it was Ramona?” Bianca asked, her voice laced with disbelief.

“That hair… Christ, I’d know her plaits anywhere,” I jabbed a trembling finger at the ratty apron clinging to the ribcage. A moth-eaten gingham...