The news is playing on an endless loop. It didn’t take long for the media to discover that Isabella and Gregory had been found. One alive. One dead.
She looks down at her hands, focusing on her fingers as they turn one of her rings over and over, the metal gliding across the skin. This ring usually gets stuck – it’s getting too small – but today her hands feel cold. She feels cold all over. Panic is still present, leaving her system slowly, like a dripping tap that will eventually come to a complete stop.
Holden looks even more tired on the screen – his eyes are small and watery, as if he hasn’t slept. He’s been Chief Inspector for so long, but this case – this case is different. It isn’t just London watching. Not even just the country – since the second murder, the whole world seems to be watching the Confession Room, commenting on the investigation, critiquing every decision – and each moment that passes without any progress, each second of the clock ticking down to another confession, only intensifies their focus.
But the police haven’t named Emilia. And the media haven’t found out who she was. They simply said that a dog walker had stumbled upon Isabella.
As soon as the police arrived, she was manoeuvred out of the way. Isabella’s eyes grew wide, searching for Emilia, her hands clenching into fists and then stretching open again, over and over. From the back of an empty police car, Emilia searched the faces of the officers who had arrived, scanning for a familiar gaze or feature, hunting for Ciaran’s reassuring nod. But she didn’t recognize any of them. One officer came over and asked if she was happy to go to the station to make a statement. She nodded yes, turning to glance at Isabella one last time. She was sitting in the back of an ambulance, her legs dangling off the side and not quite reaching the ground, like a little girl. But she didn’t look up.
The interview room at the station felt so different to sitting on the other side of the desk. The witness side. Everything is reversed, the world flipped as if it has been dragged into an alternate dimension. A dark version of the world that Emilia was so accustomed to.
And it felt like that the last time. When she was brought to a very similar room after Sophie was killed. She sat on the wrong side of the desk and realized that she would never be able to look at an interview room in the same way. That her place of confidence and security – the place where she was always in control – could now only ever be the place where she recounted the murder of her sister.
And now this. Isabella’s name will always be synonymous with that place, with what she experienced. She’ll never be able to separate herself from the Confession Room. And by extension, neither will Emilia. She’ll never be able to unsee Gregory’s body lying there or rid herself of the experience of witnessing Isabella’s panic and horror.
A familiar rhythm of knocks sounds from the front door.
Ciaran.
Her body jumps into action, her feet moving quickly as she rushes to the front door, yanking it open. He is standing there, his arms crossed, his face crumpled with worry.
He knows.
‘Emilia –’
She steps quickly towards him, throwing herself into his arms. And suddenly, all of the emotion that has been trapped inside, bursts outwards. All the images that have been plaguing her mind explode through the surface: Gregory’s lifeless face flashing violently, melting away, transforming into Sophie and her wide, staring eyes.
‘Shh, you’re okay,’ Ciaran whispers, stroking her hair as tears seep into his jacket. ‘I’m here.’
Eventually her cries subside and he curls one arm around her shoulders, holding her hand with the other as he leads her back into the house. They drop on to the sofa, him sitting in the corner, Emilia tucking her feet beneath her to curl up beside him. But he is still holding her hand. She stares down at his thumb as it moves back and forth along her knuckles, a frisson of energy humming between them. And there is something in his gaze. An emotion Emilia can’t quite place.
‘What were you doing in those woods, Emi?’
‘I was just going for a walk –’
‘No,’ he says, shaking his head firmly. ‘Don’t give me that. Come on, I know you. Why did you go there? To those woods, so close to where Hayley’s body was left. What were you thinking?’
She pauses, her brow furrowing at the tone of his voice. The tone matches that unfamiliar look in his eye. Anger. Tingeing his usually gentle voice and kind eyes with darkness. He’s furious.
‘I … I wanted to see what was happening. I wanted to see if police were still there. I didn’t think –’
‘No, you didn’t!’ He releases her hand, her fingers suddenly empty as he shakes his head. He pushes himself to his feet and glares back at her.
‘Wait!’ she shouts, standing, her fists curling at her sides. ‘Why are you angry at me?’
‘Why am I angry? Are you serious?’
‘Yes!’
‘You let your obsession with this case take over and you put yourself in danger! How would you feel if you were still a detective? Remember how disruptive it is when the public suddenly decide that they know more than us?’
‘I’m not just “the public”,’ Emilia snarls.
‘No, you’re not. But you’re not in the police either. And we’re finding this hard enough. We have no idea how these killers are planning what they’re doing, how they’re abducting people, when they bring them back.’
‘Ciaran –’
‘What if they’d been there? What if something had happened to you? And not even that, what if the press had named you? They would know who you are!’
‘Even if I am putting myself in danger, it’s my choice.’
She stares at him, breathless, her chest rising and falling. He doesn’t understand. He’ll never understand how much she wants to help yet how helpless she truly feels.
She sits back down on the sofa, but choosing the opposite corner, tucking her knees up to her chest, a barrier against any further attacks.
‘Look, Emi, I’m sorry –’
‘Don’t, Ciaran, it’s okay –’
‘No, really. I shouldn’t have shouted. I just … you know how much I care about you. And I’m scared that your desire to help is just going to put you in danger. I want you to be safe. What’s happening is scary.’
She rests her chin on top of her knees and nods, smiling gently across at him. ‘I know. And I’m sorry. I know I’ve put you in an awkward position.’
‘I just want this to be over,’ he mutters. ‘And maybe we’re one step closer …’
Her brow lowers. ‘Has something else happened?’
‘Luca Franco …’
‘Has he been found? Has he been arrested?’
‘He’s been found … But he’s dead.’
Emilia’s breath hitches, a lump forming in the back of her throat. ‘He’s dead?’
‘Somebody found him in some woods about forty miles from here.’
‘That far away?’
He nods. ‘He’s with the coroner … they’re trying to figure out what happened.’
‘Well, how did he die?’
‘Gunshot. To the head. But –’
‘Suicide?’
‘That’s what they’re trying to find out, yes. But you know how it is – with a gunshot to the temple, it isn’t easy to tell. We might never know.’
‘But what if … what if it wasn’t him?’ Emilia whispers. ‘And Isabella said there were two people. So even if Luca was one of them, the murders could continue … If it continues – when will they be satisfied? Serial killers don’t just stop. They have to be caught.’
That is an absolute truth. For people like this – people who kill – the satisfaction never goes away. They’ll have started with something far more subtle, something hidden and buried. And maybe they’ll have spent some time trying to restrain themselves, trying to push away that feeling of wanting more. But like an animal, starving, they’ll always feel disappointed. And with each kill, that feeling will need something further to be satiated. Something bigger. More wild. More likely to end in capture.
Ciaran doesn’t engage with this line of thought. ‘Hopefully it’s all over now,’ he says firmly. ‘But if it isn’t – if more confessions come – I need you to stay safe … I need you to say you understand.’
‘I understand,’ Emilia whispers.
Ciaran sighs, his face a confused mixture of relief and disbelief.
Emilia clears her throat. ‘Has Isabella said anything in interview about who did it? Or the Room?’
‘No … So far she’s not answering any questions. She’s just terrified.’
‘What about when she was abducted? When she went missing … Any clues there?’
He puffs out his cheeks. ‘No. Her family said they hadn’t seen them for a few days. Greg had come to find her on a night out and insisted on her coming home with him. We don’t know when in that period of time they were taken. And so far there’s nothing we can trace on CCTV. No footage of them being taken. No cameras outside Greg’s house.’
‘How?’ Emilia says. ‘How are they doing this?’
Ciaran’s phone rings, and they both jump as the low buzz of vibration rattles against the side table.
Ciaran picks it up. ‘Shit, it’s the Inspector.’
‘Wild?’ Emilia asks and he nods.
‘This is Ciaran Jones,’ he mumbles into the receiver, his voice low. He pauses, listening. His eyes veer towards Emilia and she sits up straight, frowning, as she catches her own name in Wild’s muffled voice on the other end.
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ Ciaran says. ‘I’ll … I’ll speak to her and let you know … Within the next ten minutes, yep … Okay. Bye.’
He turns to face Emilia. ‘Isabella Santos has said that she’s ready to speak about what happened now. But …’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘She wants to speak to you first.’