‘Emilia, thank you for agreeing to come in. We really appreciate it.’
Detective Inspector Penelope Wild extends her hand outwards, a strained smile stretching across her face.
‘You’re welcome,’ Emilia says, shaking her hand tightly. ‘I really want to help if I can.’
Emilia swallows – it feels so strange being back in this environment, speaking to a senior officer leading on the biggest case plaguing the country. She glances across at Ciaran who smiles reassuringly – she is bolstered once more. She can help. She is here for a reason. ‘Where’s Isabella?’ she asks.
‘She’s in the witness room. You can speak in there and that way we’ll record and observe from the next room. If she does tell you anything important it will be captured … But really she just wants some reassurance. You’re not a police officer any more, so you can’t interview her. Just try to make her feel comfortable. This might make things tricky evidentially, but I’m at a loss of what else to do.’
‘I’ll make sure not to do anything that’ll jeopardize any evidence. I promise.’
‘Thank you, Emilia,’ Wild says, coming to a stop, her face stern and serious. She gestures towards the door in front of them, which is slightly ajar. ‘She’s just in here.’
Ciaran reaches for Emilia, his fingers briefly touching the inside of her wrist. Emilia shivers. He pulls away, glancing down at his shoes.
‘I’ll wait for you out here.’
‘Okay.’
She steps through the door, nodding at both Wild and Ciaran before closing it behind her. She spins around and there, sitting in the furthest corner of the sofa, her head lifting at the sound of the door closing, is Isabella.
It wasn’t so long ago that they were together in the woods, but Isabella somehow looks worse. While she has been cleaned up, her cut lip stitched, her clothes now clean, she looks even more exhausted, her skin grey, her eyes heavy with emotion. Before, there was horror and panic there, but now there is so much more. Sadness, anger, fear. Grief. How will she ever recover?
Emilia sits down in the armchair opposite her, her attention drawn to the camera suspended above Isabella’s head, the red light indicating that its all-seeing eye is awake and watching.
‘I looked for you when all the police arrived, but you were gone,’ Isabella says.
‘I know … I’m sorry, I just had to let them do their jobs. I got ushered away.’
Isabella sniffs. ‘I wanted to thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you weren’t there …’ Her voice breaks and she squeezes her eyes shut, fresh tears replacing the ones she wiped away just minutes earlier.
‘You don’t need to thank me. I was just in the right place at the right time … How have you been feeling?’
Isabella swallows, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. ‘I’m so tired. I just want this part to be over so I can go home and try to pretend that this never happened.’
‘So why don’t you want to talk to the police?’
‘I want to,’ she says, her voice cracking. ‘I do want to, I’m just …’
‘What are you afraid of?’ Emilia leans forward. ‘Of whoever did this?’
Isabella nods. ‘What if they come and find me?’ She hugs her knees tightly, her bottom lip trembling. ‘I’m so scared.’
‘I know you are. And I know how terrifying it is. When I was a detective, I did so many of these interviews and the victims were always, always afraid. But if it brings whoever did this to justice, it will be worth it. Don’t you think? They need to be punished.’
‘Yes,’ she whispers, a lone tear spilling down her nose.
‘I’m so sorry this happened to you.’ Emilia reaches out slowly, and curls her fingers around Isabella’s hand. ‘I really am.’
‘I just wish I could go back. Instead of being out with Greg on Sunday night, I could have been at home with my parents. Maybe it might have been different.’
Emilia’s body stills, her pulse slowing loudly in her ears, as if time moved backwards, just for a second.
‘Sunday night?’ She frowns. ‘You were taken to the Room on Sunday night?’
Isabella nods, her brows stitching together as she takes in Emilia’s confusion. ‘Yes … that’s when they came for us.’
‘But … but that’s the night the confession was posted.’ Her eyes widen, her cheeks turning hot. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I … I’m positive.’
‘Can you remember a time?’
‘Um … I … it must have been somewhere around midnight.’
Somewhere around midnight.
That’s when the post went up on the forum.
Which means when the confession was made they were both still alive.
The confessions haven’t been confessions at all.
They have been warnings.