Her eyes open slowly and she blinks rapidly, shielding her face from the burning white light.
Where am I? What’s happening?
The floor she is lying on is hard, grey concrete, but clean – the smell of chemicals rising up to fill her nose. Bleach.
She rolls on to her back and stares up at the ceiling. Strips of fluorescent lighting are stretched haphazardly above her, a gentle buzz emitting from them, the glare making her eyes water. She winces. Her head feels full – as if it is brimming with water sloshing from one side of her skull to the other.
I’m in the Confession Room.
‘Oh my God, you’re awake,’ a voice says. ‘I thought they might have killed you.’
She sits up quickly, backing away from the voice. Her vision swims. But another pain sears up through her leg and she gazes down at her right ankle through blurry eyes.
There, is a chain, heavy and tight, tying her to the wall. It has dug into her skin where she was lying on it, her weight pressing into the metal. Her flesh is red, the new layer below exposed and raw.
‘I’m sorry, I … I didn’t mean to scare you,’ the voice says again. ‘I’m not here to hurt you. I … I’m tied here too. My name is Ryan.’
Ryan.
Ryan Kirkland.
She turns her head slowly, and waits for the room to fall still before taking in the man on the other side of the room. He is leaning against the wall, his cheek resting against the rough surface to look in her direction, his ankle bound just the same. He is slight with narrow shoulders, a lean frame. His hair is short, almost buzzed, and mousy brown. He is young, no more than thirty. Late twenties, she would guess. He looks like any normal guy. But … she’s never seen him before.
‘Ryan …’ His name comes out in a strangled croak. She coughs hoarsely. ‘H–how do we know each other? Do you know me?’
He tucks his knees up to his chest and hugs them tightly, gripping his elbows. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
She frowns. ‘Didn’t you see the confession?’ Maybe he hasn’t been following the news. Not everyone does. Some people prefer to be sheltered from the world and its darkness. ‘Do you know where you are?’
He nods. ‘This is the Confession Room … Right?’
‘Yes.’
He shakes his head and stares up at the ceiling. ‘I didn’t see the post on the forum. After the Henleys, when the police figured out that they were naming people before they killed them, I thought maybe people would stand more of a chance. But last night … tonight – whatever the fucking time is – I decided to go out. I went to the pub with my mates and I … I missed it.’
‘How long have you been in here?’
‘I …’ He shrugs. ‘I’m not sure … an hour maybe?’
‘How long have I been in here?’
‘They brought you in about ten minutes ago. But I don’t know how long they’ve had either of us. They might have kept us somewhere else …’ His voice trails away and he stares at the floor. ‘What’s your name?’ he asks after a few silent moments have passed.
‘I’m Emilia.’
‘Emilia …?’
‘Haines. Emilia Haines.’
He continues to stare, unblinking, but he pulls at the skin on his knuckles, his foot bouncing up and down on the floor in a fast, relentless rhythm, as if he is racking his brains, riffling through his memories for some kind of connection.
Finally, he looks her way.
‘I’ve never seen you before.’
‘How about my name?’
He meets her eye. ‘Nope.’
She sighs, rocking her head backwards to rest against the wall. She’s so tired. She’s never felt this tired in her life. In all the years of working in the police, in the year of living through grief, actively mourning Sophie every day, she has never felt the weight of her body this way, pain burrowing all the way, deep inside. She allows her gaze to be dragged up to the ceiling across from them, to where the large digital timer is suspended, its glowing red digits paused at sixty seconds.
‘The countdown,’ she whispers.
‘I guess,’ he says, in a monotone.
‘Sixty seconds to make a confession that could kill you.’
‘Or save you.’
She glances across at him, and nods. Her lip trembles as the fear shudders through her.
One of us is going to die.
Blinking furiously, she wipes her sweaty palms on the fabric of her jeans. Ryan is showing no emotion – it’s as if a switch has been pressed, and he is suddenly numb. He is still, not moving at all, except for his index finger which occasionally trails across the floor.
No … not on the floor. On some sheets of paper that have been set down next to him.
‘What are those?’
He looks down, his eyes widening. ‘The boxes. You haven’t looked in your boxes!’
‘What?’
‘There –’ he says, this time his turn to point. ‘Next to you!’
How did she not notice that before? Her senses were so overrun with messages, stimuli pulling her in every direction, trying to make sense of why she is here and who she is here with, that she didn’t even see the box set down in the corner beside her. And there’s another one, further away, in the opposite corner.
Emilia reaches out and tugs the box towards her. Lifting the lid, she peers inside. Her heart drops. There is a face staring up at her from a photograph, the features so familiar she knows them by heart.
‘Sophie,’ she whispers.
‘What is it?’ Ryan asks.
She reaches inside, fingers trembling, and pulls out the photograph of her sister, the paper shaking. It’s a photo of her that Emilia has never seen before, taken from outside their house. She is looking over her shoulder, peering back inside, laughing at something. But this isn’t some candid photograph, taken by a loved one. It is taken from far away, the view partially obscured by branches, as if the person who took it was hiding. It must have been taken by him.
‘It … it’s a photo of my sister. Sophie.’
She glances over at Ryan. He waits, his face expectant.
‘She died last year … she was murdered by a stalker. It was in the news, you might have seen it.’
‘I-I’m sorry –’
‘But … what does this mean?’ She clenches her jaw, fists curling as frustration builds inside her chest. ‘What was in yours?’
He coughs, stretching out his legs in front of him. ‘Um … the first one was my ex-girlfriend.’ His eyes glaze over. ‘And the other box was a letter …’
‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to –’
‘No, it’s okay, I … I wrote a suicide letter. But I changed my mind. And somehow, they’ve got it. I don’t know how, I deleted it, never printed it out … Anyway –’
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. ‘People can get anything if they know how.’
‘Did they catch him?’
‘No, we never found him.’
He doesn’t say anything and they retreat into silence.
‘I should open the other one,’ Emilia mutters, standing slowly, wincing as her ankle stings and a throbbing pain grips her temples. Hobbling across the room, the chain growing more rigid behind her, she stares only at the box. What could be inside it? Another photo of Sophie? An article from the investigation? Or something to do with Emilia’s failure to save her?
What’s inside that box?
The chain tightens completely and she jolts to a stop.
Lowering herself to the ground, her legs curl awkwardly beneath her. She stretches her arms outwards but it is just out of reach, the very tips of her fingers just touching the corner of the box. She growls with frustration.
‘I can’t fucking reach it!’
‘Try using your legs,’ Ryan says. ‘Can you use the one that isn’t chained?’
She leans back on the palms of her hands and manoeuvres her left leg, stretching it forward. Her foot knocks the box. She drags it along the floor and the box scuffs towards her. Slowly. Painfully.
Finally she grasps it.
‘Good work,’ Ryan says. ‘What’s in there?’
She pulls off the lid, fear and anticipation and dread curdling in her stomach –
It drops downwards, as if she is on a rollercoaster, the moment that you plummet down towards the ground.
Inside is another box. Still black, but not wooden with a lid.
This one is metal.
She squints down at it and frowns.
This one is locked.