“You have no idea.”
His jaw twitches. “I know more than you think.”
The fluorescent light flickers as a sting of cold air splinters into my lungs and almost takes my breath away. What does he mean? What does he know about me?
I tap my pencil on the first page of my notebook, trying to keep this professional and concentrate on the job I’m here to do rather than my personal reasons for being here.
Valdemar’s eyes roam the empty page. “You know why I asked you here.”
Unsure as to whether this is a question, I answer it anyway. “Your letter said you have a story to tell.”
“I do, but it’s not one that can be printed.”
Annoyance bristles my shoulders. “You asked me here as a journalist.”
“I asked you here asyou. Some of the things I need to tell you can’t be printed.”
My shoulders drop. “So, you lied to get me here.” I shouldn’t be surprised. Thou shall not murder. Thou shall not bear false witness against your neighbour. The commandments seem to be a to-do list for this guy.
“Not at all. I said I have a story to tell and that I want you to hear it. I didn’t specify that you should publish it.”
I let out an audible sigh. “Then why am I here if not to write a story?”
“Because youneedto be here.”
I wait for him to elaborate, but instead, he moves on.
“Before I begin, do you have any questions?” He nods to the blank page of my notebook.
“I have questions. Lots. But they’re all in here.” I tap the side of my head with my pencil.
He leans forwards, his T-shirt pulling against his chest, images of the tattoos underneath the thin material bleeding through. “I wonder what else is in there.”
Rule number two blares in my ears: Don’t let them get inside your head. They will play mind games with you and try anything to learn personal details, your strengths, and especially your weaknesses. Keep your guard up and your personal life to yourself.
But he’s already in my head. He’s been there for the past ten years.
Clearing my throat, I straighten in the flimsy chair. “I already know enough of what happened that night from the police and the press.”
Valdemar crosses his thick arms. “And working for the press, you know first-hand how much bullshit they print. And here I was thinking you were here for a real story.”
He’s playing games again, luring me in with promises of something exclusive, something sensational. But I can’t staunch the reporter in me.
“Why now?” I ask. “You’ve been locked away for the past ten years. You could have told me these things anytime.”
He clenches his jaw, and something flickers behind his eyes as if he’s contemplating his words carefully. “Because in six weeks, I’m being released.”
“What the fuck?” Anger railroads the journalist, my blood a tempest.
“My case has been reviewed and my sentence reduced.” There he goes again, being careful with his words. All I want to do is bulldoze them from the room.
“That can’t be right.” I shake my head, my hands twisting under the table.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“This cannot be happening. Who did you have to bribe for this?” Heat crawls up my neck.
“No one,” he says.
