The drive back to her house feels long. Emilia measures the journey in the flashes of the streetlamps, the warm light blurring as it rushes past. She counts them, forcing herself to focus on something.
Count the streetlamps. It isn’t much further.
Not much further.
Eighty. Eighty-one. Eighty-two.
She is safe. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
One hundred and four. One hundred and five. One hundred and six.
This is her road. She is home.
One hundred and thirteen.
One hundred and thirteen streetlamps from Isabella’s house to hers.
The door creaks open as she unlocks it and she is greeted by the sound of Mimi’s barking.
‘Hello, darling,’ she whispers. ‘What’s all the fuss about, hey?’
Her claws click across the wood and Emilia lifts her up, breathing in her familiar puppy scent. ‘Hello, gorgeous.’
She pulls her phone out of her pocket, pressing on the screen, but there is no response. It is black, a dark mirror reflecting her tired face back at her. ‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ she mutters, remembering that the charger which usually sits beside her desk is in her work bag, up in her bedroom. She glances down at Mimi and her bulging, expectant eyes. ‘Let me charge this and then I’ll feed you, okay?’ Mimi licks her lips, cocking her head to one side.
Emilia places her down on the floor and then runs quickly upstairs to her bedroom, plugging the phone in and then pressing on the power button. It lights up, turning on.
She goes back to the kitchen and pulls out the dog food from the cupboard under the sink, Mimi’s eyes always on her as she waits excitedly, her wagging tail swiping against the tiles.
Emilia pours her food into the bowl and then retreats to her desk and sits down in the chair, smiling at the sight of Mimi skidding across the kitchen floor to reach her long-awaited feast.
She glances at her computer and her hand moves out of habit to nudge the mouse. The screens come to life – Twitter on one, the forum still open on the other.
Huh. #TheConfessionRoom is trending again. It must be because of the vigils.
Unless …
A loud burst of sound floats down from her bedroom, jaunty and bright. Someone is calling her. But she ignores it – what if another confession has been posted?
She pushes the mouse quickly over to the second screen and refreshes the page.
The ringing stops. But after just a couple of seconds, it begins again. Shrill and relentless.
The page loads. And there it is – a new confession – at the top of the thread in bold.
She skims the words quickly and pauses, her breath catching at the back of her throat. She reads it again. And then again.
Anonymous 01
Murder. London. Ryan Kirkland. Emilia Haines.