I need you to go back to the first day you were here. He shakes his head as he leans forward, folding his arms across the table. Am I supposed to elaborate on that? “How does meeting Layla relate to what’s happening inside this house?” He leans back in his chair, staring at me quietly. I was the bass player in the band that played her sister’s wedding.” I’m hesitant to respond to questions that I know won’t lead to answers, but at this point, I’d rather hear my own voice than Layla’s muffled screams. “Why don’t we start with how the two of you met,” the man suggests. Every sound coming from upstairs makes me flinch. Knowing Layla is suffering because of my actions is not something I can easily ignore. “Where do you want to start?” He seems like he’ll be able to work through the noise, but I’m not sure I can. The wooden headboard pounds against the wall upstairs, creating an eerie echo in this huge empty house. How can I have hope for a way out of this when things have gotten so out of control? I’m speaking to a detective I met online while my girlfriend is upstairs, losing her damn mind.Īs if she knows I’m thinking about her, the noise picks up again. I’m not even sure there’s an end to this tunnel. There’s no light at the end of this tunnel. This severely outdated machine is going to record every word I’m about to say, and that’s somehow going to help?Īt this point, I’ve all but given up. The battery compartment is held together with old duct tape running up the sides of the machine. The wheels on the cassette begin to rotate. He presses it down with the play button and slides the recorder to the center of the table. It’s about ten inches long and six inches wide with a big red circle on the left button. He has the kind of old recorder you’d see in a movie from the eighties. I placed two layers of duct tape over Layla’s mouth before I came downstairs, but I can still hear her muffled screams as the detective takes a seat at the table.
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