“I’m beginning to think you might be right, Leora.” Mel closes the box, biting her lip as she tucks it back into its hidden compartment. “And when I think of what that might mean for me and my people, it terrifies me.”

Chapter Fourteen

While I wait for the dead of night, that moment when everyone but you is asleep and the world cannot get more silent, I think of Jack Minnow. I want to know what he does each night in the hall of remembrance.

I slip out of Mel’s study, closing the door with as little sound as possible, and head for the steps up to the museum. Mel stayed up late, a thin crack of light visible under her door, but eventually she had gone to sleep.

I reach the reception area. Lights from the town square cast a dim glow across the entrance way. I rattle the doors experimentally, but they are of course locked. I go through the drawers, looking for anything of use, but there is nothing. As I shut one, I knock over a pen pot and hold back a laugh when I see it among the pencil sharpenings: a key.

I hold it in my palm, examining it closely. It is silver and decorative. Gazing at the space around me, trying to work out where it might fit, I walk deeper into the building and try the doors to the library, but the key doesn’t match. I skirt the edges of the large space and I can feel my hope stretching its arms out.

There is one place left, and it is calling me: behind the green door. I can hardly bear to reach my hand out to the handle because I know what I will see, and I know that since I came here last, the only thing that will have changed is me – and that that changes everything.

The handle is cold. I know the key will fit before I try it. A small twist, a dull click, one deep breath and I turn the handle, pushing the door and pulling my fear into my centre. Dust and stale air dry my throat and I splutter – it feels like a neglected space. But they still bring children here; I see evidence of a recent visit – worksheets and pencils, clipboards and a forgotten hat. Of course they wouldn’t stop the school trips to this place – not only is it a rite of passage, it matters more than ever that the children of Saintstone hear this story. They need to be convinced – to be absolutely certain of the threat their enemy poses – because that is the only way. Make your enemy less than human, then make that less-than-human dangerous, then make the danger feel close. Easy.

The glass-faced exhibits that edge the room are oppressively dark. I know that behind the shiny exteriors there is a blood-stained knife, a severed hand, a damning letter. Evidence. All here to convince the viewer of their own righteousness in the face of blank wickedness. I am repelled by these dark corners – but the centre of the room scares me even more.