“Liar. You killed my fucking brother, and you get to walk free after ten years? Where is the justice in that?” I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get cross, that I would keep my emotions in check and not lose my shit, but I’m already a bubbling volcano of fury.
“This is why I wanted to talk to you.”
“To assuage your guilt?”
“No, to put the record straight.” He’s so calm, so cool, which makes me even madder.
“And why should I believe you?”
“Because you’re here. That alone tells me you want answers. And I can give them to you, but it’ll take more than one hour.”
I regard him with caution. What is this about? What game is he playing?
“I have a visitor slot every Thursday at four o’clock. I would like for you to attend for the next six weeks.” He sounds businesslike, formal and professional, not the hot-headed thug I’ve pictured for the last ten years.
My skin crawls at the thought of having to repeat this visit. It’s been hard enough; I’m not sure I can go through it all again. But then I remember Ed, and even though his ghost appeared ghastly—the pallid skin, the rawness of his wound—I would give anything to see my brother again, even if it means having to sit across from the monster who made him what he is now.
“What about your other visitors?” Does hehaveany visitors? Friends, family?
“They can wait.”
Uncertainty mixes with my curiosity. “What can you possibly have to tell me that will take us six weeks?”
“Everything you want to know.”
This thought rattles about in my skull.
He’s a murderer. What else is there to know?
“I know you’re the head of one of the most prolific organisations in Amontillado. I know you’re a ruthless monster with no soul, no empathy, and certainly no morals. And I know you killed my brother.”
Valdemar places his elbows on the table, his restraints jangling as they slide down his forearms. “Wouldn’t you like to know why?”
“The papers reported?—”
“What they wanted to report.”
I try a different angle. “At the hearing, the witnesses said?—”
Again, he interrupts me. “What they were told to say. No one was interested in my past or my reasons behind what happened. But you, angel—you are. You deserve to know the truth and to hear it from me rather than anyone else.”
I tut. “And I’m sure it’ll be a pack of lies.”
“What would be the point? And, like you said, I have no morals, so why would I feel the need to lie to you?”
Valdemar is giving me six weeks of access to him and an exclusive story that most journalists would give their right arm for. He said I can’t publish it, but what right does he have to ask that of me?
I owe him nothing.
He owes me everything.
After Ed’s death, I was a mess, incomplete, half of me having died with my brother. I was on sick leave from the paper for over twelve months, and when I did return on a part-time basis, I functioned on a cocktail of drugs and grief. I felt like a ghost. Dead on the inside, dead on the outside, sharing my days with my deceased mother, wishing I could join her.
And then one day, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and didn’t recognise the person staring back at me, saw nothing of my brother, only a shell with vacant eyes. So I decided enough was enough. I couldn’t languish with the dead any longer.
I’ve spent the last few years trying to retrieve the dream of being a successful journalist, but my past won’t seem to let me, and other reporters are being assigned the best leads while Captain views me with wary eyes, as if I might break down at the slightest sign of stress.
This could be my big break. This could be the story that puts me up there with the greats. But do I want that? Could I live with myself knowing that the death of my brother put me inthe limelight? But Valdemar is right—I don’t want anyone else reporting on this. I don’t want to read about it in some other paper, some bull-headed journalist putting their slant on things. If this story is to be told, it has to be by me.
