PRAISE FOR VICTORIA SELMAN’S TRULY, DARKLY, DEEPLY

“Sits at the pinnacle of suspense fiction! Rich with psychological insight. . . . It simply doesn’t let go. . . . One of those rare crime
novels that will stay with you long after you turn the last page.”

—Jeffery Deaver, bestselling author of The Bone Collector

“Truly, Darkly, Deeply is beautifully written and moves at the pace of wildfire. It draws you into the dark world of serial murder without celebrating it. Victoria Selman is an exciting and powerfully fresh voice, and her new thriller is one you won’t put down.”

—Patricia Cornwell

“An absorbing and captivating read, this held me in its thrall from beginning to end. Brilliant!”

—S. J. Watson, bestselling author of Before I Go to Sleep

“Original and clever—an incredibly tense read which pulled me inexorably along to its chilling denouement.”

—Harriet Tyce, bestselling author of Blood Orange

“Utterly gripping, it’s a breathless thriller.”

—The Sun

“A twisty psychological thriller that goes to the heart of how and who we love. Can’t wait to see what Selman does next.”

—Sarah Pinborough, bestselling author of Behind Her Eyes

“Utterly compelling. Twisted yet heartfelt. It’s the stark portrayal of the complexities of familial love, and the slow burn of psychological authenticity that makes Truly, Darkly, Deeply such a thrilling read.”

—Ali Land, bestselling author of Good Me Bad Me

“I was hooked from the first page of this impressive thriller, and found it impossible to put down. Selman dives deep under the
stereotype of serial killers to provide a complex analysis of innocence and guilt and the question of how well we know the people we love.”

—Alex Michaelides, bestselling author of The Silent Patient

“First-rate. Victoria Selman has written a smart, sophisticated and compelling mystery thriller about the effects of serial murder, both on the killer’s victims and, equally chilling, the ones he spares. The characters and situations absolutely ring true and she had me all the way.”

—Mark Olshaker, co-author of Mindhunter

“Gravely compelling, sophisticated, terrifying. Victoria Selman truly excels with this clever, nuanced mystery.”

—Chris Whitaker, bestselling author of We Begin at the End

“What a brilliant read. From the beginning, I was totally immersed. . . . Riveting and dark, yet so wonderfully written
it also felt full of heart.”

—Karen Hamilton, bestselling author of The Perfect Girlfriend

“Truly, Darkly, Deeply is a gripping, disturbing story. Victoria Selman is a beautiful writer, jumping between past and present seamlessly. This is the kind of book that will keep you up at night.”

—Samantha Downing, bestselling author of My Lovely Wife

“Nail-biting suspense with real humanity and depth.”

—J. P. Delaney, bestselling author of The Girl Before

“The accumulating tension is screwed tight in the
ingeniously constructed narrative.”

—“Best New Crime Thrillers,” Financial Times

“Dark and twisty.”

— Crime Monthly

“It’ll blow you off the sofa!”

— Peterborough Telegraph

“Truly, Darkly, Deeply is an unsettling psychological serial killer thriller that gets more and more compulsive with every page.”

— CultureFly

“Captivating.”

—“Book of the Year,” Woman & Home

UNION SQUARE & CO. and the distinctive Union Square & Co. logo
are registered trademarks of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

Union Square & Co., LLC, is a subsidiary of Sterling Publishing Co., Inc.

Text © 2022 Victoria Selman

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means
(including electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise)
without prior written permission from the publisher.

All trademarks are the property of their respective owners,
are used for editorial purposes only, and the publisher makes
no claim of ownership and shall acquire no right, title, or
interest in such trademarks by virtue of this publication.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed
in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

First published in the UK in 2022 by Quercus.

This 2023 paperback edition published by Union Square & Co.

ISBN 978-1-4549- 5091-2

ISBN 978-1-4549- 5092-9 (e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023930601

For information about custom editions, special sales, and
premium purchases, please specialsales@unionsquareandco.com.

unionsquareandco.com

Cover design by Andrew Smith for Quercus

Photograph of rose on cover © Magdalena Wasiczek / Trevillion Images

Interior design by Christine A. Heun

In memory of Maggie (2006–2020).

Deeply loved. Desperately missed.

This book was inspired by a number of different real-life serial killer cases. True crime fans will no doubt spot psychological or behavioral traits familiar to them from the Shadow and monsters like BTK, the Zodiac, the Green River Killer, Albert DeSalvo, Richard Ramirez and many others. However, the characters in the novel, their actions and motivations, are all entirely the product of the author’s imagination and are wholly fictitious.

Sophie—

There’s so much to tell you, I don’t know where to start. The kite, maybe. It’s not the beginning exactly, but I suppose it’s as good a place as any.

You watched it transfixed, your nose pressed up to the glass as it circled, a black shadow creeping across the lawn. Flying on the spot, you said. The way you liked to dance.

There are kites in Massachusetts, but you’d never seen one before. Or maybe you just didn’t remember, you were so small when you moved to London. Certainly you never expected to see one here. They get pigeons in the capital; sparrows, the occasional robin. Birds of prey, not so much.

“What’s it doing?” your mother mused. “Lost maybe. Poor thing.”

“It’s hunting,” you said.

And you were right.

The sparrow was hopping about in the fallen leaves on the trampoline, didn’t see it coming. Didn’t stand a chance. The kite didn’t swoop so much as drop out of the sky, snaring its victim, pulling it apart right where you practiced your tuck jumps.

Your awe turned to horror, gripping you the way the kite gripped its prey.

Sated, the killer returned to the clouds, leaving behind only the sparrow’s legs spat out and discarded on the muddy, leaf-strewn canvas. An avian crime scene.

I think of it often. An omen for the darkness readying to descend into our lives. For the wreckage that would follow. For the incomprehensibility of it all.

You cried; nose running, choking on your tears.

“It’ll be okay. There’s nothing to be afraid of,” your mother told you.

She lied, Sophie. You had every reason to be afraid. And it was not all going to be okay.

ONE

You think you know this story. I think I do. But how much do any of us really know?

I’d like to think I always had a feeling. That a part of me always suspected something was amiss. Though the truth is I didn’t suspect anything. Of course, there are things I look back on now which make me think, Was that a clue, a sign? But if so, it’s only because of what I learned later. Back then, it wasn’t a clue. It wasn’t an anything.

That’s the problem with hindsight. It distorts memory, superimposes warning flags where before there were none. Makes you question yourself. Turns the past into a series of whys and recriminations.

Why didn’t I see what was happening? Why didn’t I realize sooner?

I know the answer. It doesn’t help though. If anything, it makes it worse—

No one saw. No one realized. I wasn’t the only one who was fooled.

The letter lands on the doormat with a soft plmp as I’m tying my Merrells; steeling myself to take the dog out and brave the biting rain. Wishing I’d drunk a little less last night. Fighting a hangover. Same old, same old.

I pause, hunched over my shoes, laces looped around my fingers, eyes snared by the flat Manila rectangle. By the name I know it contains.

The air has gone still. I’m conscious of my breathing; of a dull ringing in my ears, the drumbeat of my heart.

BATTLEMOUTH PRISON

The words are stamped in bold red lettering across the top of the envelope the way a farmer might brand a lamb.

My stomach knots. I bite down on my tongue, taste the backwash of acid mixed with my morning coffee. Smell the alcohol-stained sweat breaking out over my skin.

He broke out too, escaped his cell just six months after his incarceration. Another of his smoke-and-mirrors tricks.

I run my thumbnail under the flap, pull out the letter. Underlined at the top:

Re: Matthew Melgren

“Matthew,” even though everyone always calls him “Matty.” Us, the press, the true crime shows. All the channels have run them.

Matty fascinates people: his apparent normalness, his charming smile. Handsome and educated. A killer who doesn’t fit the stereotype. He wasn’t a loner, wasn’t socially awkward, held down a good job.

He had a girlfriend too, so no markers in that direction either. There was one of those straight-to-DVD movies made recently about his relationship with my mother. The producers got some flak for using such a handsome actor. It was all over Twitter; how they were playing up Matty’s golden good looks. How it was an affront to his victims.

They missed the point though, those up-in-armers. Never mind that he still has more than his fair share of female fans sending him panties and porn, playing down his attractiveness would have been the real insult to the women he killed. Revisionist history. After all, if Matty had been some socially awkward troll, he’d hardly have been able to lure his prey, to get them to trust him. I should know.

Re: Matthew Melgren

My eyes move down the page, the air thickening in my gullet. I speak to my mother as I reach the end; head pounding, mouth dry. At first, I deflect.

“I broke up with Tom,” I tell her, steeling myself for what I need to say, gathering my thoughts.

“Oh, Soph, I’m sorry. What happened? He seemed nice.”

I scoff.

“Everyone’s nice at the beginning.”

The words hang between us, conjuring the same face in both our heads.

“Did he hurt you?”

I laugh—it’s hollow.

“He told me I should wear skirts more.”

“Oh Soph,” she says again.

It’d sound stupid to anyone else, but I knew she’d get it, just like I’d know she’d been knocking back the pills long before the slur hit her words.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

She could always see through me too. No point covering it up, not now.

“I got a letter. From Battlemouth.”

“Matty . . .”

I hear it in her whisper. It’s still there after all these years, after everything that’s happened. The yearning, the questioning, the love that won’t leave. Straight away I think of the pearl-handled penknife I keep in my dresser drawer, the relief that comes from exorcising the guilt. God, I really am Pavlov’s bitch.

Buster, my dodgy-hipped German Shepherd rescue, has Pavlovian reactions too. Whenever he hears a man shouting, an unexpected bang or thump.

He senses my mood, stumbles over nosing at my thigh. I rub his ears. Good dog.

“Matty’s dying,” I tell my mother. Not gleeful, but not sorry either. “Pancreatic cancer.”

“How long?”

I shrug.

“Couple of weeks? Possibly less.” I take a breath, let it out slowly. “They say he wants to talk. To meet.”

“A confession?”

I hear the hope in her tone, the desperate need for closure. My skin prickles. I need that too. And yet . . .

“Maybe a confession,” I say. “Though who knows with him? Last I heard, he was still saying they got the wrong man.”

“Will you go?”

“I’m not sure.”

A yearning for answers. The fear of getting them. I glance down. My hand is trembling.

In it, the letter trembles too.

TWO

“I got a letter too,” my mother says.

“From Matty?”

“No.” There’s disappointment in her voice, she covers it quickly. “From the prison chaplain. A guy named Bill.”

“Old, is he?”

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry. Ignore me.”

Old Bill is British slang. Something as an American, she never quite picked up. Just as I never picked up the ability to sit with my discomfort.

I resort to lame jokes when I’m nervous. A defensive mechanism, according to my therapist, Janice. Another deflective tactic. I’ve acquired a few over the years.

Let your guard down, one of my mother’s Post-it notes reads. Let people see the real you.

Yeah, right.

“So, what did this chaplain say? Bill.”

“That forgiveness is healing. That I’d feel happier if I could let go of my resentment. That I’m the one it’s hurting.”

“Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

Bet you and Chaplain Bill got on like a house on fire, I think.

“I hope you told him where he could shove his forgiveness speech.”

“I didn’t write back. I kept the letter though.” I know she did. It’s in the box with the photos. “You can read it if you want.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

“I wish the way I feel would pass.”

Her sadness evokes a responding wave of emotion in me. I wish I could hug her, tell her everything’s going to be okay. But it’s too late for that.

“When I think of my life with Matty, I don’t know what was real. And what I just wanted to be real,” she says.

“Does it matter?”

“It does to me.”

The pause is pregnant. There’s so much I want to say to that, so much I shouldn’t say. I settle for the thought so often in my head.

“That last girl he killed was eight. Same age I was when we first met. Her sister, twelve, just like I was when he was arrested.”

“We don’t know for sure he killed her.”

“Jury was pretty sure.”

I hear her sigh, take a sip of whatever she’s drinking. Gin, I imagine. It became her morning tipple during the trial. By the afternoon she didn’t care what was in her glass so long as it kept her drunk.

“Don’t you ever wonder if they got it wrong?” she asks.

“No.”

I’m lying though, of course I wonder. How could I not?

What he did, what they said he did, has haunted me for so long I can’t remember what it’s like not to feel as though I’m suffocating, not to have to remind myself to breathe.

Even now, a part of me thinks one day I’ll wake up and find it’s all been a bad dream. That my hero’s name has been cleared. That he didn’t hurt those women, slaughter a girl who still slept with a teddy.

I followed the trial every day in the papers, have read and watched everything about the case since. I’ve seen the photos, read the crime scene reports. But as long as he protests his innocence, I’ll always wonder: Did they convict the wrong man? Did I make a terrible mistake? Was my childhood a lie? Or is the lie the story I’ve told myself?

“He wrote me, you know. After his conviction. A love letter. Poured out his soul. Begged me to believe in him, in what we had. Told me he was embracing his spiritual side. He’d taken up meditation, he said. Was getting involved with the prison charities. Even counseling some of the inmates struggling with depression.”

You’d have lapped that up, wouldn’t you? I think. Matty turning over a new leaf, you prompting it. Proclaiming his undying love for you.

“Bill said he asked him to read it over. That he wanted to get the words just right.”

Why dupe one person when you can dupe two?

Her tone changes, a balloon deflating.

“I never wrote back. He must have been so upset.”

“Good.”

My voice has hardened, varnish on rotten wood. A façade. The slightest poke and I turn to sawdust.

“Will you go?” she asks. “To visit him?”

For a long time, I don’t answer. She waits, pulls at her drink. I dig my nails into the scab on my wrist, hard enough to draw blood.

“I’m scared,” I tell her finally.

“I know,” she whispers.

But she can’t. Not without understanding what I did.

From the blog True Crime Files

Why do serial killers so often feel the need to issue press statements after their convictions? Showboating? Getting the last word? Their insatiable egos?

Matty Melgren’s post-sentencing statement is eerily reminiscent of Ken Benito’s (the San Francisco Strangler) who was arrested ten years after Melgren was sent down.

This has led some to speculate whether Benito’s crime spree was inspired by Melgren, who famously asphyxiated his victims with their own underwear, leaving the ligature tied in a bow around their necks.

If so, he’s not the only person to hero-worship Melgren, who receives fan mail, money, and even saucy snaps from female admirers who appear to be turned on rather than off by his gruesome attacks.

Matty’s statement (read out by his lawyer):

A terrible miscarriage of justice has taken place here today. I am innocent of these murders which have rocked the world and caused women everywhere to fear going out alone.

If anybody is guilty of a crime it is the police who have fabricated a case against me based on deception and phony evidence. Nothing has been proved, least of all my guilt.

The sentence I’ve received belongs to someone else. I hope with all my heart he is found soon and brought to account, not just for my sake, but for the victims’ families too. They deserve to know what really happened to their loved ones.

As do I.

Whatever the motivation behind Melgren’s statement, plenty of people are still wondering if he was telling the truth. And whether the real killer is still out there . . .