Chapter 18
I’m sitting on the porch steps of Amara’s house, the afternoon sun feeling far too bright for the filth swirling in my head.
I can’t stop thinking about him. Rhys. That absolute fucking lunatic.
His voice is still echoing in my ears, dripping with that poetic, unhinged madness, but it’s not the "Sandman" bullshit that’s eating me alive.
It’s what he said about Cordelia and Rosalind. Something happened that night... and it seems like I don't seem to recall.
The arrogant prick. I recall. I recall every fucking second of it, even if I’ve spent seven years trying to scrub the images from the back of my eyelids.
I close my eyes, and suddenly I’m twelve again.
I can smell the cloying scent of vanilla frosting and cheap party streamers.
It was our twelfth birthday. We were triplets, three identical dolls in matching lace dresses with oversized satin bows pinned into our hair.
We’d spent the evening at the Tin Heart toy shop, our father beaming, taking photos of us huddled around a cake, playing the part of the doting Papa while he entertained the other kids.
Then, the house went quiet that night. Papa had left us alone for a bit, and Cordelia—always the ringleader—convinced us to stay up past our bedtime to watch TV.
We were lined up on the sofa. Rosalind was at the far end, closest to the door. Cordelia was in the middle. I was at the end, pressed against the cold wall, feeling small and safe.
Then the door opened.
A man walked in. I can’t remember his face—it’s a blur of shadow and malice—but I remember the knife. A heavy, wide-bladed butcher’s knife that caught the dim light of the living room.
He didn't hesitate. He lunged for Rosalind first.
I remember the sound first—a wet, sickening thud.
He drove the blade into her stomach, over and over, the steel ripping through her birthday dress.
Rosalind didn't even have time to scream before the first few blows, but then it happened—a high, piercing shriek that tore through the room.
Cordelia and I screamed too, a synchronized wail of pure, primal terror.
He just kept stabbing, the knife sinking deep into her abdomen, her small body jerking with every plunge until she was nothing but a heap of blood and lace.
He tossed her aside like a piece of rubbish and grabbed Cordelia.
She tried to fight, tried to scramble away, but he was too fast. He gripped her by the hair and drove the butcher’s knife deep into the side of her neck.
I heard the cartilage snap, the blade nearly severing her head from her shoulders.
Blood sprayed across the wallpaper, a violent, hot crimson.
He threw her onto the floor next to Rosalind, their dresses soaking up the gore.
Then, he turned to me.
I was paralyzed. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move a fucking muscle. I just stared at him, locked in his gaze. His eyes were like two dark voids, and for a heartbeat, I saw my own reflection in them—a terrified, trembling little girl staring back at a monster.
And then, for some reason I will never understand, he just... stopped. He didn't stab me. He didn't even touch me. He just turned around and walked out of the house as calmly as if he’d just finished a chore.
I remember the silence that followed, broken only by the wet, rattling sounds of my sisters' dying breaths.
Then Papa appeared. He scooped me up in his arms, his voice a soothing murmur, telling me it was okay, that I was safe now.
He carried me downstairs to the toy shop and used the landline to call 999.
A shaky sigh escapes my lips, and I open my eyes, blinking back tears. The memory is a jagged piece of glass in my chest.
"Oi, Ophelia. What's up with you, love?"
I jump slightly as Amara settles onto the steps beside me. She’s looking at me with that genuine concern that always makes me feel like a fraud.
"I... I was just thinking," I whisper, my voice sounding thin.
"About my sisters. I was told the man who did it is in jail for life. But Amara... no officer ever came to ask me what I saw. Not really. I was the key witness, the only one left, yet I never went to court. I never testified. It’s like they just... brushed me aside."
I grip the edge of the wooden step, my knuckles white. "And I don't even know where they are. Papa told me he’d put them somewhere special. Next to my mother. He just hugged me and told me I was safe. That was it. No grave, no headstones, no funeral. Nothing."
Amara frowns, her expression hardening. "That's absolute bollocks, Ophelia.
You can't just 'not testify' in a double murder case.
Something smells fishy as fuck." She shifts closer, her voice determined.
"Would you like to go to the police station?
It's your family's case; they can't exactly refuse to give you the file if you demand it. "
I feel a surge of panic. The thought of sitting in a sterile room, under fluorescent lights, facing strangers... it makes my stomach churn.
"I can't," I mutter, looking down at my boots. "I can't look people in the eye, Amara. Not because I'm scared of them, but... that night. It scarred me. I can't... I wouldn't be able to express myself. I'd just freeze up like a fucking idiot."
Amara reaches over and squeezes my hand, her grip firm and grounding.
"That's fine, you daft thing. I'll go with you. I'll do the talking, I'll be your mouthpiece, and I'll tell them to shove it if they give you any grief. We'll get the truth, Ophelia. I promise.”
The walk to the station is a blur of grey pavement and the oppressive weight of my own thoughts.
Every step feels like I’m dragging a fucking anchor behind me.
Amara is beside me, her presence the only thing keeping me from floating away into a panic attack.
She’s been quiet for a while, letting the horror of my story settle as I recalled to her all I remember of that night, but as we approach the heavy glass doors of the precinct, she speaks up.
"One thing, Ophelia," she says, her voice low and serious. "You said you looked right into his eyes. That you saw your own reflection in them. You must remember what he looked like. A nose, a jawline, a scar... something, love."
I stop dead in my tracks, the cold air biting at my skin. I try. I really fucking try. I reach back into that dark, blood-soaked room, trying to find the face of the man with the butcher's knife. But there’s nothing. Just a void. A smudge of charcoal where a human being should be.
"I don't," I whisper, my voice trembling. "I can't recall it at all. I haven't... not for a long time. It was there, right at the start, but then it just vanished. Probably not too long after that night. It’s just... gone."
Amara stops and turns to me, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "How the fuck is that possible? You were staring him down while he slaughtered your sisters. That kind of trauma usually burns an image into your brain like a brand. You didn't just blink and forget, Ophelia."
"I don't know!" I cry, the frustration boiling over. "Do you think I want to have a hole in my head where a murderer's face should be? It’s like my brain just decided to delete the bastard to save me from going completely mental."
She sighs, her expression softening, and gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze. "Right. Fair enough. We'll figure it out. Just keep your head up."
We push through the doors, and the atmosphere hits me like a physical blow.
The station is a cacophony of misery and bureaucracy.
It smells of stale coffee, floor wax, and that distinct, metallic scent of desperation.
It’s a bleak, fluorescent-lit hive of activity.
Officers in high-vis vests are rushing about, phones are ringing incessantly, and in the corner, a man is shouting something incoherent at a desk sergeant, his face a mask of rage and grief.
I feel small. I feel like a fucking rabbit walking into a den of wolves. I keep my gaze fixed on the scuffed linoleum floor, avoiding the eyes of everyone we pass. The bright lights are too much; they make everything feel exposed, raw, and clinical.
Amara, however, marches in like she owns the place, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. She leads me up to the main reception desk, where a middle-aged officer with a face like a slapped arse is staring boredly at a computer screen.
"Right, listen up," Amara says, her tone brisk and no-nonsense. "I'm here with Ophelia Sorrell. We're here regarding the case of her sisters, Cordelia and Rosalind Sorrell—the double homicide from seven years ago. We need to see the case file and speak with whoever is handling the archives."
The officer doesn't even look up at first. He just sighs, a long, weary sound. "Files are archived. You can't just walk in and demand a murder file. You'll need to fill out a request form and wait for authorization."
Amara leans in, her voice dropping an octave, becoming dangerous.
"She was the key witness. The victims’ sister.
Now, you can either be a helpful prick and find us someone who actually knows what they're doing, or I can start making a right royal scene in the middle of your lobby. Your choice, sunshine."
The officer finally looks up, blinking at Amara’s intensity. He glances at me—I quickly look away, staring intensely at a smudge of dirt on my boot—and then back to her. He lets out a huff of annoyance and gestures toward a row of hard, plastic chairs against the wall.
"Fine. Sit your arses down and wait. I'll see if the sergeant is available to take a statement or point you toward the records office. Don't move."