CHAPTER ONE
“What doyou wear to meet a murderer?” I ask my mother as I scan my closet.
My mother doesn’t answer.
She never does.
She sits on the window seat, mauve curtains framing her like a portrait with high cheekbones, glassy eyes, pearlescent skin, and thick lashes. I rifle through shirts, jumpers, tops, and dresses, all of which are either steel grey, navy blue, or black, an ombre of bleakness devoid of colour or pattern reflecting the past ten years of my life.
A dress? Too formal. Jeans? Too casual. I look to my workwear, but my job as a journalist has no dress code other than comfort and practicality.
After pulling on black trousers and a skintight grey jumper, I select a waist-length jacket to complement the look.
The letter remains in the kitchen, stuffed behind a bottle of olive oil and the large peppermill a work colleague bought me years ago as a Secret Santa gift. I know its contents word for word, as I’ve read it a thousand times, wondering whether my day would be an entirely different one if the vowels and consonants were to rearrange themselves.
Dear Miss Evangeline Bransby,
I’ve been approached by many journalists over the years, as my story is one that is much sought after. I have refused all of them.
But it is time, and I don’t think it would be right to tell anyone my story other than you.
A visit has been arranged for Tuesday 5th January at ten o’clock in the morning, if you would do me the honour.
I realise this must be difficult, but I think you and I have both been waiting long enough.
Yours sincerely,
Valdemar Montresor
The paper is creased from when I’d screwed it up and thrown it away, a higher force stopping me from tearing it up and burning it. But shortly after, I’d found it back on the kitchen table, the paper smoothed out, the words staring at me along with my mother, who’d been sat at the table with compelling eyes and thin lips.
“Are you seriously telling me I should do this?” I’d asked her.
Silence had been her reply, a quiet I had to interpret, like all the other empty answers she’s given me over the years.
“Will this outfit do, or do I look like I’m heading up a meeting?” Turning towards my mother, I’m faced with a bare window seat, the oversized scatter cushions plumped as if no one had just been sitting there.
I’m alone.
Nothing ever changes.
“You choose now to disappear,” I accuse the air. “This was your idea, remember?”
I press my hand against my churning stomach and glance down at my clothes. It doesn’t matter what I wear, as my anger always manages to radiate through my layers.
It’s been ten years.
It feels like more, but at the same time, it feels like it was only yesterday.
A lot can happen in ten years.
People can change, heal, and forgive.
But what about murder?
Can that be forgiven?
The letter doesn’t mention forgiveness; that isn’t what he’s asking for. So, what does Valdemar Montresor seek to gain from this meeting? What can the man who murdered my twin brother possibly have to say to me other than he is sorry?
