"Your father's name?" the officer asks, pressing lead to paper.

My hands tremble so violently I place them together between my thighs to force them not to, a habit I formed when I was younger. "Robert."

"Kingston?"

I nod, eluding eye contact.

"Is he still around?"

I shake my head. "No. He's gone."

"We need to get in touch with him as soon as possible?"

I finally look up. "This is on me. It's my burden to deal with. I'm trying to make it better. That's why I'm here, to pay for my mistakes."

The man exchange glances with the officer. A slight nod and the officer and the woman leave, along with the samples they collected, leaving the man and me alone in the room. The large mirror on the wall across from me catches my attention and I wonder if they are going to the room behind it to listen in. If so, I have nothing to hide.

"Is there more I should know?" The officer sits casually yet attentive, as if he is an old friend catching up on time lost.

"She was the first one." The words painfully force their way off of my tongue. "There were others?"

"How many?"

"Many."

"You have an approximate number?"

"Twelve. Twenty. Fifty."

The man sits forward, closing the space between us. "You're telling me he's got fifty women buried in the back of that cottage?"

I shrug. "Twelve that I know about. That I remember. But this is about me. I told you, I'm gonna fix it." I sit back in my seat and stare at the mirror, imagining the people behind it scrambling around, frantically debating what to do next with my confession. "I'll pay for all their lives. I promise. That's the only way to stop the screams. I need to pay for it. I know that now."

"You know, we're gonna have to corroborate your story with some facts," the officer says, suddenly speaking as if he is talking to an eight-year-old girl. "Can you give me details? Any detail so I know what you're telling me is the truth?"

"You'll find everything you need buried behind the cottage." I glance under the table at my shaking hands and tuck them back between my thighs.

"You said you heard the girl scream while he was digging the hole? So it's possible she didn't die by your hands."

"Screams. I still hear them. Whenever it's silent their screams creep in. So I'm not sure if it was her screaming or her ghost."

The officer nods. He tilts his head, eyeing me, scrutinizing me as he lets my words sink in.

"Did he ever say why he killed—why he allowed you to hurt that girl?"

"She was gonna get away. We had to stop her."

"Why was she there? Did she take anything from the property?"

"She took my innocence, my happiness, and turned our home away from home into a slaughter house. That's what I used to think. I used to blame them. First I felt sorry for them. Then, I used to think we were doing them a favor. Then I began to believe they all deserved it, especially Irene. But they punished me for what I've done to them. They torture me every day I'm awake and every night in my nightmares, and flames can't fix it. Only coming clean and paying with my own life will stop them. I'm okay with that. I accept it."

The door opens and an officer with a drink in hand enters and places the lowball glass next to me on the table, then disappears as quickly as a gust of wind.

The man gestures to the glass. "Drink up."

Condensation trickles down the outside of the cup and the ice inside twirls a bit. The water cools and moistens my tongue. It goes down with ease and I have to stop myself from downing it all in haste, afraid of choking on the liquid before I finish saying what I have to say.

"Who's Irene?" His eyes narrow in what looks like cautious worry, as if he is trying not to show any emotion.

I clear my throat. "She was the woman who helped me understand why."

Twelve, twenty, fifty bodies. . .

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