I turned and took a few tentative steps back into the forest, closing the space between myself and the graves. Kader’s was slightly removed from the others, dug at a fractionally different angle, the wood of the cross newer, less battered by wind, by the rain that must have washed through here since the nine villagers were buried; by the frost, the snow, the pine sap. Beneath my feet, the ground was hard, my ankles aching, my legs as well, and so I dropped to a haunch in front of the mounds of earth and watched the wind move in again, the crosses all fluttering.

A gunshot ripped through the air.

Startled, I turned and looked back in the direction I’d come, out to the clearing in which I’d left Isaac Mills, but now he wasn’t standing, watching me, he was on the ground: one arm under him, the other still holding the gun, eyes gazing up at the sky.

I left the graves and headed back to him, looking down at his body, the top of his head a mess of brain and blood, and then closed my eyes, trying to regain some measure of composure. I felt like I wanted to hide. I wanted to cry. When I opened them again, I saw that he’d taken the notebook out of his pocket and tossed it on to the ground.

It was the history of all this.

He’d made me write his confession.

The forest seemed to close in, the trees oppressive, and I backed away from Mills, from the graves, as if I needed some distance just to find my breath again.

And then I saw something.

The padlock for the shack was lying on the floor.

Realizing that Mills must have unlocked it when I’d been on my haunches at the graves, I moved slowly towards the wooden building, the door fanning back and forth in the breeze, and stopped at the entrance.

Inside was a fire, empty and unlit, a few shelves with a mix of old tin cans and rusting metal equipment on them, and then a chair in the corner, chained to the wall.

On the chair was a woman, gagged and bound.

I recognized her instantly.

‘It’s okay,’ I said, holding up a hand.

She blinked, watching me, still uncertain if I was her enemy, her face streaked with dirt and blood, a lilac bruise below her cheekbone.

I took another, even smaller step forward.

‘Honestly, it’s okay,’ I repeated. ‘I’m not going to hurt you, Joline.’

68