Page 115 of Burn Like An Angel

I’m not ashamed of the silvery lines covering me. In fact, I never have been. Why should I? It’s my body. My blood. My pain. If I wanted to take myself apart to study the pieces, that was my prerogative.

Now at thirty-six years old, those marks have evolved to mean something more to me. Not evidence of my experimentation with cheap razor blades as a child. Nor a survivor’s badge of honour, even if the battle was fought against my own mind.

No.

These marks are a reminder.

A reminder of who I once was—and who I’ll never be again.

Because of her.

My eyes ping-pong as we weave through desks bearing half-awake employees, camera gear, desktop screens and steaming cups of coffee. I’m surprised by the size and gravitas of it all.

This is an industrial-scale operation, filming episode after episode of documentary footage, ready to be churned out. When it airs… I predict a toxic media frenzy. And I refuse to see that shit play out again.

“What are you trying to achieve here?”

Stepping into the studio, Elliot holds the door for me. “There are still many unanswered questions about Harrowdean Manor and the other institutes. The world needs to know.”

“You’re reporting on them all?”

“Yes, we’re unravelling the whole story. This documentary series has been in the works for the last decade.” He smiles proudly. “It will be my life’s work.”

Inside the studio, two folding chairs sit in the centre of the room. It’s clear I’ve caught him with his pants down—lackeys rush in to begin setting up tripods and cameras, and an assistant is urged to make fresh coffee.

Elliot flips through several stacks of notebooks. I get a glimpse at the covers while he searches for the correct files. Each is carefully labelled with the names of the interviewee attached to their relevant institute.

They’ve spoken to a whole pool of people. Countless names I recognise. I’ve followed the lengthy criminal investigation and subsequent years of media reports ever since those horrific days.

My eyes brush over the labels denoting the five other institutes until he lands onHM. Harrowdean Manor. The sixth and final institute. We got our own file. How organised. But beneath those letters? There are names.

Ripley Bennet.

Lennox Nash.

Raine Starling.

Xander Beck.

“Ah, here.” Elliot hums as he plucks the file free. “Truthfully, I didn’t think you’d come around to this interview. You’ve caught me rather unprepared.”

“Clearly.”

My gaze is locked on that file. I want it. The tapes. Notes. Documents. Photographs. I want every fucking scrap of salacious gossip he’s got piled up in there so I can build myself a nice little bonfire.

The truth isn’t some ray of light shining on those who’ve spent their lives downtrodden. How could it be? Nobody values truth anymore. Not even when it’s printed, played or publicised. We’re wilfully ignorant as a species.

That doesn’t mean I will allow our lives to be sold off for profit. I don’t care how healing this bullshit is supposed to be. Some stories shouldn’t be repeated, and ours is one of them.

“We’ve been given a great deal of information from Miss Bennet. Perhaps you’ll be able to fill in some gaps for us.”

Jaw clenching, I fight to keep my voice even. “Of course.”

Elliot casts me a look. “She was rather tight-lipped about what became of your… uh, relationship. I wonder if you’d care to shed some light on that.”

“Alternatively, you could mind your own fucking business.”

Elliot grimaces, his crow’s feet deepening with the movement. “I don’t get paid to mind my business, Mr Beck.”

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