The crack in Emilia’s ceiling is bigger than it was before.
She narrows her eyes, squinting up at it from her position on the sofa – flat on her back, her hands clasped over her chest.
In the old house, the one she shared with Sophie, there had been something similar. ‘We should get Dad to come and fill that crack,’ Sophie would say, glancing sideways up at it. ‘So why don’t you ask him?’ Emilia would respond, to which Sophie would flash back a wry smile. ‘Maybe I will,’ she always replied. They both knew that Sophie would never do it. Small tasks like that would just pass her by – Sophie was big-picture focused. A dreamer. It was Emilia who pondered over details. Maybe that’s why Sophie knew so little about the man who was following her, because even when it was important, her mind simply couldn’t take in the detail.
But now, here, where she lives alone, it’s as though her house is cracking open, pulling itself apart knowing what she has done. She tries to force him from her mind but he is always there. Ryan. His reassurance and kind words when she first woke up in the Room. His fear. But then Sophie appears and she is overcome with anger. With righteous justification. But then just as quickly as it arrived, it shatters. How can she justify what she did? How can she even attempt to convince herself that her killing him has made anything better?
The phone rings loudly, the jaunty tone setting her on edge. The night she was taken to the Confession Room it had rung over and over, the string of notes underscoring her horror. She needs to change it. Anything else will do. Anything but that fucking tune.
Emilia turns on to her side, reaching her arm awkwardly over her head to stretch towards the side table. The tips of her fingers brush against the phone and it tips, clattering to the floor.
‘Oh, fuck off,’ Emilia mutters. She sits up and reaches down for it, her heart lifting at the sight of his name.
‘Ciaran, hi,’ she whispers.
‘How are you feeling? Did you sleep well last night? I’m so sorry I’ve been so busy again.’
‘It’s okay. I know it’s important.’
‘Did you get my package yesterday?’
Emilia’s eyes slide over to the hamper she found on her front doorstep: flowers, her favourite chocolates, trashy magazines.
‘Yes.’
‘God, I miss you.’
Emilia’s breath catches, her heart suddenly feeling too big for her chest.
‘I could come over tonight after my shift?’
She would give anything to see him. To have him hold her and kiss her, and stroke her hair, and tell her that he’s going to look after her. That he’ll keep her safe. But she knows that he’ll ask her questions. He’ll want answers. Answers that she cannot give. And she doesn’t deserve his love. Guilt shudders through her as Ryan’s face, full of terror, appears once again in her mind. If Ciaran knew what she had done, would he still love her?
‘I’ve missed you too. I really have. And I’m sorry I haven’t been messaging that much … it’s just been hard.’
‘Please don’t apologize,’ he says, rushing to get his words out. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for. I know how hard it must be. I still feel so horrible for pushing you for answers and I promise I won’t ask you anything else. We don’t have to talk about it, not unless you want to.’
‘It’s okay …’ Emilia presses her lips together. Should she ask? Or should she stay quiet? ‘What’s happening with the investigation? Any closer to catching them?’
Ciaran sighs. ‘Actually, something just happened with that …’
Emilia’s breath catches. ‘What is it?’
‘Wild took me off the case.’
‘She did what? When?’
‘Literally just before I called you. She wasn’t happy with how close I was to one of the victims. She thought it’d be better for me to go back to other work.’
‘Oh … I’m sorry.’
‘It isn’t your fault. It’s me. It was consuming me already and then once they took you, I … I would have ended up doing something stupid. I could have jeopardized the whole thing.’
Emilia nods slowly, relief fluttering through her like butterflies.
‘Come over when you’re done,’ she says.
‘Are you sure?’
Emilia smiles widely. He sounds so happy. So relieved that everything hasn’t changed between them.
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she says quickly. ‘As long as … as long as you understand that I can’t talk about what happened. I can’t, Ciaran. I really can’t –’
‘I understand, Emi. I promise I won’t try to make you.’
She hadn’t realized how desperate she was to see him, how much she needed to have him close to her again. ‘Okay.’
‘I can’t wait to see you. I love you, Emi. You know that, right?’
‘Yes. I love you too.’
‘See you later.’
The phone call ends and Emilia drops the phone to the floor as her head collapses into her hands. She cries: big fat tears of guilt and love and shame.
She tries to ignore the feeling deep inside her. The gentle fluttering of butterflies turning violent, their wings smashing against her insides. What was it she read once? Butterflies are nothing but anxiety. We’ve been conditioned to think of them as positive, but really they are our bodies responding to stress. They are nothing but a warning sign. A glaring red light telling us to go no further.
But she can’t let the guilt consume her completely. If this is the decision she has made – to remain quiet, to remain the victim – then she has to get on with her life. And she needs Ciaran. And he needs her.
She flops back and stares up again at the crack in the ceiling.
It isn’t any bigger. It’s just her imagination.
Her body tenses as that familiar tune blares up at her from the floor.
But she smiles, her muscles relaxing. It will be Ciaran, calling to ask what takeaway she wants him to bring. She leans forward, reaching once again for the phone –
It isn’t his name on the screen. It isn’t his photo smiling up at her. Nothing but a black screen and No Caller ID.
She grabs it, her throat tightening, the butterflies thrashing around, desperate to escape.
‘Hello?’ she says, trying to keep her voice steady.
Silence.
‘Hello? Who’s –’
‘Hello, Emilia,’ comes a low growl. Terror floods through her. But it isn’t the initial silence or the no caller ID – it’s the tone of the voice, robotic and distorted.
It is them.
She stops breathing as everything slows, the butterflies falling completely still – collapsing instantly to the floor.
Why are they calling? What do they want?
‘Hello?’ she whispers in response, unable to summon any other words or protestation.
‘We said that we would call on you.’
Emilia pinches the bridge of her nose as tears of fear burn in the corners of her eyes. She screws them shut in an attempt to block out the phone, block out their strange, alien voice. Block out everything. This can’t be happening. It must all be a bad dream, a nightmare.
‘Talk to us, Emilia,’ the voice mutters. ‘Staying silent won’t help you.’
‘Please leave me alone,’ she cries. ‘I’ll stay silent, I promise I won’t say a word. Just leave me alone.’
‘But we need your help. And you promised that you would help us. You said that you understood the rules.’
‘I said that I would never help you –’
‘You told us that you would do exactly as we said. So that’s what you’re going to do.’
Emilia’s vision blurs, the room spinning violently, tipping off its axis. She blinks up at the ceiling, willing the world to fall still. But all she can look at is the huge crack, spreading rapidly before her eyes, her life tearing itself in two: before the Room; and after.
‘What do you want?’ she whispers, her voice breaking.
‘We’ve left a gift for you outside.’
‘A gift?’
‘Yes. In the hedge to the left of your gate, you’ll find a package. Go and get it.’
‘Right now?’
‘Yes. Right now.’
‘Okay …’
She stands slowly, staring at the front door. What if this is a trick? What if they’re just on the other side and as soon as she steps out, they grab her?
‘We’re waiting, Emilia.’
She inhales sharply. ‘Where are you?’
‘You don’t need to know that. But we told you we’d be watching you … Looked like quite the conversation you were having before we called.’
Her skin turns cold. They were there, just outside while she was talking to Ciaran. They could see her. And she had no idea. If they had called on her just a few days ago, they would have been met with journalists around the house, all focused on the most recent survivor. They’ve been waiting – waiting to use her when the glare of attention has turned to someone new.
She rushes towards the door, tugging it open and bursting out into the freezing air.
‘Good girl,’ the voice says. ‘Now … go fetch.’
Emilia’s feet curl against the cold ground. She hasn’t put shoes on. But she just needs to get whatever they’ve left. Grab it, rush back inside. Close the curtains.
She runs, pelting across the path towards the gate.
The hedge to the left, the hedge to the left –
Yes – there it is.
An envelope has been balanced just so in the branches, in the spaces where there were once green leaves. She reaches for it, taking it in her shaking hands. It is thin. Almost as if there is nothing in it. But there – in the corner – there is something small. Textured.
She stares out to the road, squinting to see down to the nearest streetlamp. But the lane is cloaked in darkness. Where are they? Can they see her right now?
‘You can go back inside,’ the voice says.
Emilia’s legs move without her commanding them to do so, her body trying to escape their watchful eyes. Just because she cannot see them, doesn’t mean that they can’t see her.
She slams the door behind her, her heart hammering as she searches the room. What if that was a distraction? What if they snuck inside while she was out there?
‘Open the envelope, please.’
Emilia crosses to the kitchen and clutches the edge of the counter, her knuckles turning white. She slides her finger under the flap and it comes away. She turns it over and shakes.
Her eyebrows knit together as she stares down at the contents.
A face gazes up at her. A photograph of a man. Mid-forties, if she had to guess, salt and pepper hair, short, standing in a bar, holding a beer. He’s smiling. He looks … normal.
And there, next to the photograph, a tiny clear plastic bag. And inside – white powder.
What is this …?
‘The man in the photograph is Harris Keaton,’ the voice says. ‘Tonight he will be in a bar called the Dandy Fox. It’s in the City. His employer, Laughton and Kemp, the investment fund, are having a leaving party there tonight. You will go there and convince him to leave with you –’
‘I can’t –’
‘It shouldn’t be hard, Emilia. You might want to buy some cigarettes – he’s a smoker. Get him to leave with you. We don’t care how you do it: be coy about it or offer it on a fucking plate. Either way, he won’t say no. Then bring him back to your house. Offer him a drink. Spike the drink with that powder.’
A tear splashes on to the photograph. Harris Keaton continues to gaze up at her, head thrown back in a laugh. So unsuspecting.
‘It won’t take long to work,’ the voice says.
‘And … and then?’
‘Well, isn’t that obvious? Then we’ll collect him.’
The room spins again, the counter rocking back and forth, the man’s face blurring.
‘And Emilia … Don’t do anything stupid. Remember what we told you: we won’t hesitate to hurt somebody you love. And your parents aren’t the only ones you love, are they? Ciaran Jones seems like he’s very important to you.’
Emilia shakes her head frantically, her hand clamped across her mouth to stifle her rising scream.
‘We’ll be watching.’