“Thanks, Daddy.” I giggled before looking over at my mother standing next to him, her smile as radiant as her skin. “Mummy likes it too.”
My father’s face wilted and his cheeks hollowed. It was like letting the air out of a balloon. “What did you say?”
“I said Mummy likes it too. I can tell because she’s smiling.” Flapping the skirt, I danced around the room, unaware of what I’d conjured.
“But Mummy isn’t here, sweetheart. She’s in heaven, remember?” His tone was soft but laced with conviction, and I’m still not sure who he was trying to convince that my mother wasn’t standing in the room with us.
I stopped dancing and smiled at my mother before telling my father that heaven must be here in our house, then.
We never talked about it again. I never mentioned her clasping her hands to her heart every year as I blew out the candles on my birthday cake or how brightly she appeared to shine the day I opened my exam results in the kitchen. And after I left home and bought a place of my own, she came with me, culling the idea of there being a heaven at all.
And I’ve often wondered, after Ed’s passing, why I haven’t seen him. Why he hasn’t visited me like my mother does. Ed had been the other half of me. Until the age of around seventeen, we’d been inseparable, like twins are supposed to be.
And when he died, I wanted to see him, if only to soothe the wound his death had opened.
Ten years of searching for a ghost amongst the living.
And now, he’s here, standing behind Valdemar, his face hollow, his eyes watery, the bullet hole encrusted with dried blood imbedded like a third eye in his forehead tarnishingthe silver-blond of his fringe. His hand rests on Valdemar’s shoulder, his raven tattoo stark against the paleness of his skin. There’s no halo of light like there is around my mother, no shimmering translucent skin, just ghostly limbs and the smell of sulphur.
And I want to cry.
My mother, although dead, looks beautiful and at peace, whereas Ed looks lost and broken.
Why here?
Why now?
What is he doing standing behind the man who shot him?
As if this interview isn’t going to be difficult enough.
Gulping hard, I drop my gaze, not wanting to look like I’m staring at thin air. My mind is racing, my heart hammering against my ribcage as if it’s trying to break a bone. I want to talk to Ed, to reach out, but Valdemar is watching me.
Grabbing the back of the chair, I drag it out and then sit down. My hands shake as I pull out my tiny Dictaphone and notebook.
There’s an abrasive silence as I sit here, nerves swamping me, anger fermenting.
Once I’m ready, I inhale deeply before looking up to find my brother has gone. The only eyes now staring at me are those of Valdemar Montresor.
I take in his slick black hair swept back into a man bun, his murderous eyes a biting blue, his jaw covered with a close-cropped beard. The calm exterior he exudes is a sharp contrast to the concoction of emotions mixing inside me.
“Angel.” The gruffness of his voice counters with the beauty of the word, and I’m annoyed that something so innocent can come out of his mouth.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your name… Evangeline. It’s a Latin name meaning gospel, the bringer of good news, and you remind me of an angel with your silver hair and pale eyes. Thank you for coming.”
He sits back in his chair, and I’m lost, his accent a melting pot of so many continents. There’s a hint of Spanish, a dash of Italian, and a smattering of New Yorker all mixed together, making it impossible to tell where he comes from. It’s like he’s brewed it himself and branded it his own.
As my insides harden, I remind myself of some of the rules I read online about interviewing notorious criminals.
Rule number one: Don’t let them take control of the interview. You are in charge, not them. They will try flattery, insults, outrageous remarks, and even promises of secrets they’ve never shared. Don’t be fooled. Stay in control.
But he’s already in control. He asked me to come here, and I agreed. I’m here at his behest.
“I nearly didn’t.”
“I understand, and thank you again for agreeing to be here. I know this must be very difficult for you.” I want to sense insincerity in his tone, to complete the picture of the bad guy sitting before me, but I don’t. Instead, his words are carefully placed as though he’s contemplated them for a long time.
