Emilia slams the door, leaning against it as she briefly closes her eyes, relishing the feeling of finally being at home. Another day spent in a car, watching a house, waiting for a man to visit somebody’s wife, has made both her body and mind ache. The unrelenting ache of boredom.
But being paid to see if somebody’s wife is having an affair is better than nothing. It is better than the first six months after she left the police, when all she did was eat into her small amount of savings and vegetate on the sofa, waiting for the anxiety to settle to a level where she might be able to go for a walk, or visit her parents. Back then, the dread had been all-consuming. But now it is out of sight. Hidden in a place where she can at least attempt to push it so deep inside that she can no longer feel it.
She opens her eyes at the sound of Mimi barking, her feet clipping down the corridor towards her.
‘Hello, darling,’ she says softly, before walking to the kitchen at the back of the house and turning on the tap, waiting a few moments for the water to run cold. She gulps thirstily from the glass and then refills it, sighing loudly, as if she can breathe out the day.
Heading to the living room, she walks directly to the rosewood desk that is tucked into the corner by the window, just as she does every day. She places the glass beside her keyboard and nudges the mouse. The screen brightens and comes to life, the documentary she was watching last night still paused, a message box pinned to the centre of the screen.
‘Are you still watching Can Women Kill?’
Emilia clicks Yes, and the programme buffers for a brief moment before it continues, the narrator telling the tale of Mary Ann Cotton in his low, gruff voice.
She turns to a second screen and begins to scroll through various sites. She does this every night: listening to the documentary, her mind occasionally becoming fixated on the drama before turning back to the forums which she always consumes in the same order. First, The Fun Lovin’ Criminals chat: an open group for people who used to work in criminal justice and who miss the thrill and satisfaction of working on a case, but they can’t return to work – for any number of reasons. Sometimes they discuss the reasons. And sometimes they don’t. None of them knows why Emilia left the police. She wants to tell them, she knows that all it would take would be to type the words, I’m Sophie Haines’s sister, but every time she’s tried, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. It’s as if her fingers became immobile, her brain unable to comprehend how to even spell out the words, let alone type what happened into existence. And she couldn’t bear the questions. Nor the inevitable moment where one of them would suggest they work together to solve the mystery of what happened to Sophie. Emilia has already tried. The police have tried. Going back there would only drown her, after a year of thrashing against the current to fight her way to the surface and take that first life-saving breath. She fought with everything she had to solve what had happened. And, after she left the force, the police had tried their best too. But there were no leads. No clues left behind by whoever had been following Emilia’s sister.
After a while, the investigation began turning quiet; still juddering along but never gaining momentum. And the heartbreak was simply too much. Every time she had the urge to push herself to investigate, the grief washed over her all over again, the wound open and fresh. She couldn’t do it. Maybe nobody would ever know who killed Sophie. And that’s something she’ll just have to live with.
After catching up with that group, she always turns to Websleuths.com. Then the Reddit Bureau of Investigation, followed by lipstickalley.com. And then finally, the Confession Room.
There are so many places for confession now: countless websites that offer a place for anonymous atonement. When Emilia first visited the Confession Room, she didn’t expect to find anything new. Surely there were only so many times you could read about someone cheating, or lying, or stealing from the corner shop, before you glazed over. But that hadn’t been the case … not at all. She returns there, night after night, her eyes glued to the screen as she takes in each day’s new confessions. As the months have passed, the confessions have darkened.
Emilia clicks in the address bar and types the first few letters and the address appears automatically.
theconfessionroom.com
She slams one finger down on to the keyboard. Enter.
The window turns black and the image of a door appears, metallic and cold. A creak leaks out from the speakers as it swings open and Emilia smiles, just as she did the first time she went on the forum and was surprised by the effort that had been put into the experience. Most other forums were plain and simple. But this one was different.
Behind the door, lying in the centre of a room, on a plain grey floor, is a box. Black and solid, its lines clean. The lid lifts and a piece of paper unfurls in the foreground. Calligraphy appears slowly, the writing dark and slanted, as if written with ink, which seeps lightly from the letters, like blood leaking into the clean white page.
You are about to enter …
It hangs there for a moment, perfectly still. But then it curls in on itself, into a scroll, and lowers itself back inside the box which closes suddenly, the lid slamming shut with a heavy finality. There is a low swell of music, violins, and a rumble of drums as the box begins to rotate, spinning faster and faster. It finally comes to a stop, a corner pointing towards the screen. And then words begin to appear, letters etched into the surface of the lid and two visible sides.
THE CONFESSION ROOM.
The word Enter shimmers into view.
She clicks.
The box opens, a bright white light emanating from inside, growing brighter and brighter until it has consumed the entire screen.
The title hangs at the top of the page, its letters ashen and black. The forum is designed like a room, cold and clinical: a wide horizontal mirror fixed to background, light grey walls and exposed pipes wrapping their way across the top and down the sides of the screen. And written in the same calligraphy as before:
Welcome to the Confession Room.
A safe space for atonement and confession without consequence.
Beneath that: line after line of confessions. Emilia’s eyes widen. It’s growing. Exponentially. Every day she is shocked by the increase in the number of posts; the number of active users suspended in a box on the top right of the screen.
How many of them are merely reading the forum – and how many have confessed? Actually revealed a piece of themselves for the world to see?
Emilia understands the compulsion – the urge that pulls you in as you read other confessions, the feeling that it would be so good to spell out in words the very darkest of your thoughts. It’s what she did, all those months ago when she first found the website. She allowed herself to type it out, letter by letter, the secret that had been with her like a constant toxic companion ever since Sophie had been killed.
I could have saved my sister. It’s my fault she’s dead.
And she hadn’t stopped there. Some deeper impulse had churned inside her, dark and volatile, spilling out breathlessly.
If I knew who he was, I would kill him.
Emilia jumps at the sound of a slamming door, heavy and final: the signal for a new post. The first time she had been on the forum it had scared the life out of her: she had jolted so suddenly that her tea had swelled out of her mug and sloshed all over her pyjama bottoms, turning the skin beneath a violent red.
Her eyes dance over the newest confession, widening first and then narrowing as her brow lowers into a frown.
No matter how badly he treats me, I’m not sure I’ll ever be brave enough to leave. I hate myself.
Emilia shakes her head, reaching for her glass. She gulps loudly, The confession, so simple, but with so much left unsaid. Just one sentence had set off a cascading line of questions, like dominoes, one falling after the other. Even though she is no longer in the police, she is still the consummate detective. But she can’t get this drawn in by every confession on this page – especially as more and more are like this now, dark and chaotic. She has to switch off, like she used to in the police. Not every case can be let in. Not everyone can be saved.
Her stomach turns – not everyone can be saved. Not even the best of us. Not even –
No. She mustn’t think of Sophie.
Blinking rapidly, Emilia scrolls upwards, and then stops at random. She reads quickly, her toes curling, ready for another emotional torrent, but her face breaks into a smile.
Apparently my husband is leaving me for a woman he’s fallen in love with online. He doesn’t know that it’s me. I’m sure he’ll be heartbroken when she doesn’t meet him at the airport and falls off the face off the fucking planet. Surprise, you lying bastard.
Emilia reads it again, lingering on the final sentence. She laughs out loud, full and raspy at the back of her throat. It feels good. She moves up the page again, scanning the words, taking them in voraciously. Enjoying this place where people can admit their secrets and keep them safe. Get them off their chest, with no consequence at all except for relief. There are admissions of affairs, screwing over colleagues, stealing, hatred of partners, regret over having children – then Emilia’s hand falls still as she takes in a post a third of the way down.
I sometimes follow a woman home from the station. She’s so beautiful. I would never hurt her, or any one, but sometimes I wonder how it would feel to just reach out and grab her.
Emilia’s vision clouds over, her heart thumping in her chest, her fingers tingling.
I wonder how it would feel to just reach out and grab her.
That’s how it begins. That’s how it always begins. That must be how the man who killed Sophie felt. At first he just watched her – she had told the police she was sure she was being followed. Stalked. But there’s always the first time – the time that they stop being satisfied with wondering, and start needing to feel.
Who is the woman this man is following? Is she safe? His post feels like a warning – a blaring signal of impending danger. But a signal for who? The person who posted this can’t be found.
Emilia’s phone rumbles, the vibration loud and jarring. She jumps, then picks up the phone.
‘Hi Dad,’ she says.
‘Emi! Just checking in. Are – are you okay?’
‘Yes.’ She clears her throat, trying to rid her voice of its adrenalin-fuelled high pitch. ‘Why?’
‘You … You sound strange.’
‘No, I was just watching a documentary and the call made me jump … Everything okay?’
‘Yes – just checking in.’ He sighs. ‘I don’t know why you watch that kind of stuff, Emi. Crime and unsolved cases … Why don’t you watch something relaxing? Something fun? What’s that show you always used to watch with Sophie? The baking one?’
Emilia sighs. She hasn’t been able to watch Bake Off since – not without her sister. They had watched it together every week, without fail, curling up on the sofa together underneath a thick blanket, cups of tea balanced on their laps, commentating on each episode through mouthfuls of shortbread.
‘I’m not forcing myself, Dad. You know it’s what I’m passionate about. It’s what I love –’
‘Well, if you love it –’
‘Don’t say it, Dad.’
‘If you love it so much,’ he continued, ignoring her warning, ‘why don’t you go back to the police? You know they’d have you back in a heartbeat.’
Emilia scoffs. ‘Not so sure about that.’
‘You’re a brilliant officer –’
‘Was.’ She begins to chew on the edge of her thumb, on the piece of loose skin she’s been trying to ignore. ‘I was a good police officer. That was before.’
‘You can still do it.’
‘No, Dad. You know that isn’t true. You know that after … after everything, I was not a good officer. I could hardly function. And I just … I just couldn’t. I can’t go back.’
‘Emi, your mum and I really think –’
‘Please don’t say it again.’ She inhales deeply as her voice breaks, her eyes stinging. ‘Please.’
He pauses. He doesn’t know what to say. He never means to hurt her but he does. Every time he tells her to go back to the police, every time he tells her that she can still do it, it is a burning reminder that she can’t. It isn’t in her any more. The love for it is. The passion for it. But not the ability. Nor the stability. Mentally, emotionally … She just can’t. It’s too difficult now. Everything feels too personal. After Sophie, it was impossible. She felt as though her colleagues were treading on eggshells around her, assessing how each case might make her feel, whether she could cope. And the truth was, she couldn’t cope at all. She went to a therapist, she saw a psychiatrist – she did everything she could to find her footing. But every moment was like wading upstream, the current ready at any moment to sweep her feet out from beneath her. And then she started making mistakes. Her doctor diagnosed her with post-traumatic stress disorder. She only lasted a few days beyond that.
‘I’m sorry, Emi. But doing private investigation just seems like such a waste.’
‘I’m good at it,’ she insists. ‘I can find anyone. And it makes me money. Good money. Better money than being in the police, that’s for sure.’
‘You know we just want what’s best for you.’
‘I-I know.’ She gulps, blinking away tears, trying to push the swelling emotion back down deep inside her. ‘I really wish I could, Dad. You know that … right?’
Silence.
‘Dad?’ Emilia pauses, listening to his breathing, knowing that he is trying to think of the right thing to say. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here, love … So you’re definitely not going back?’
Emilia closes her eyes, pressing her lips together to stop herself from crying again. Her hand rises to her mouth, her teeth finding that loose piece of skin once more. She winces. The taste of blood hits the back of her tongue, iron and salt. The taste of what it is to be alive.
‘No,’ she says with finality as she lowers her hand and watches a drop of blood trail down the side of her finger and pool in her nail-bed.
He sighs again, his tell-tale exasperated exhale. ‘Well, of course it’s your decision. And we’re here for you. You know that, right?’
‘I know.’
He pauses. ‘Love you, Emi.’ He blurts his affection out quickly. They are out of practice. She pushed them away for so long, unable to face the guilt that stirred inside her when confronted with their grief. Did they blame her too?
‘I … I love you too.’
She ends the call and presses the side button, turning the phone black. She places it back on the desk, lost for several minutes in the dark reflection staring back at her from the screen.
She slumps in her chair, rolling her head backwards, the nape of her neck resting awkwardly against the headrest. The sudden rush of emotions has dissipated, leaving her empty. A drained battery – all energy siphoned away.
Her eyes slowly move to her computer. She reaches out her fingers, slowly, stretching them to gently nudge the mouse.
The forum is there, the confessions suspended on the screen. She scrolls slowly upwards, taking them in, smiling at some, rolling her eyes at others. But finally she reaches the top, the most recent confession highlighted in bold: someone stealing two fifties from their mum’s purse. Emilia shakes her head. Glancing at the clock, she yawns loudly. It’s 7:45 p.m. Time for dinner.
The sound of a slamming door bursts from the computer and Emilia jolts.
There is a new confession at the top of the screen.
She leans forward, her eyes travelling quickly over the words. But she frowns, re-reading the post, her mind whirring as it tries to process, like a child sounding out new words.
Anonymous 01
Here’s a confession: Murder. London. Hayley James. Luca Franco.