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Chapters (70)
  1. Title Page
  2. Contents
  3. Copyright
  4. Praise for Caroline Mitchell
  5. Also by Caroline Mitchell
  6. Dedication
  7. Epigraph
  8. Prologue
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. 19
  28. 20
  29. 21
  30. 22
  31. 23
  32. 24
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. 49
  58. 50
  59. 51
  60. 52
  61. 53
  62. 54
  63. 55
  64. 56
  65. 57
  66. 58
  67. Epilogue
  68. Acknowledgements
  69. About Caroline Mitchell
  70. About Embla Books

Satisfied the house was safe, she settled down with her laptop and searched for the Midnight Game online. Here, in the dim light of her lonely kitchen, Sarah found answers. All this time, she’d assumed the game was just a façade. But now as she read the steps, they began to resonate. The game was played in a dark creepy building, where players knocked on a wooden door at midnight, inviting the dreaded figure in. Memories of Blackhall Manor rose in her mind. The power had been out the night her family died. If your candle extinguished it meant the Midnight Man was near. Sarah recalled waking at midnight as the first boom of gunshot filled the air. Tears pricked her eyes as she read the rules of the game. If the player couldn’t relight their candle within ten seconds, they had to make a salt circle and stay in it until 3.33 a.m. A sad sigh left Sarah’s lips. There had been no salt circle to protect her family on the night they died. She swallowed back her tears as she read on. ‘If you are unsuccessful in your actions the Midnight Man will create a hallucination of your greatest fear.’ Sarah tugged her fringe. Her greatest fear was revisiting Blackhall Manor. Then it hit her. The killer had involved her from the start, but only now could she see to what extent. ‘It’s about me,’ she whispered, her words brittle with shock. ‘It’s all been about me.’

44

Friday, 8th November 2019

After taking a seat in the DI’s office, Sarah waited for him to come off the phone. The air was warm and stuffy, carrying a lingering smell of coffee and stale breath. It reminded her of her probationer days, sitting in a smelly office, waiting for a progress report. She wanted to crack open a window, just as she’d had the urge to back then. But as she sat before her senior officer, her bottom felt glued to the chair.

Being the oldest in her intake, she had always stuck out like a sore thumb. Unlike the younger trainees, she’d enjoyed hours of daily study and relished the weekly written tests. It wasn’t that she was a swot, she was just so bloody grateful to be there. Being a police officer was her lifelong dream. But her husband hadn’t shared her enthusiasm. ‘You’ve been through enough trauma,’ he used to say. ‘Why would you want to take on anyone else’s?’ But it wasn’t about taking on more than she could handle. It was about making her survival mean something. Today she needed to make her DI listen.