If you're hearing this, it means they got me. Or I ran again. Either way, Dara, you were right.
The recording began with static and breath, then the small scrape of a chair leg against tile. Nina sounded younger than death had made her in Dara’s memory. Younger, frightened, angry enough to be alive. There was a dull thud on the tape, as if she had set the machine down in a hurry, and then the faintest laugh — not happy, never that, but stubborn. Nina Quinn had always laughed when a room wanted her quiet.
I don’t know how long I’ve got. They keep telling me time works differently in here, as if that’s comfort. It isn’t. Time works exactly the way it always has. It runs out. It runs out for girls who make too much noise. It runs out for families who ask questions. It runs out for anyone who believes a locked door is only a door and not a verdict.
Dara, if Mam hears this first, don’t let her blame herself. She’ll try. She’ll go straight for the knife and put her own name on the handle. Tell her I was loved. Tell her I knew it. Tell her there were days when that was the only thing that kept my feet on the floor.
Another pause came through the tape. A breath, uneven at the edge.
And you. You’ll want to burn the whole place down. I know you. I know the shape your hands make when you’re trying not to throw something. Don’t waste the fire on the walls. Walls are replaceable. Names aren’t. Find the names. Follow the money. Check the safe.
Somewhere behind Nina, a corridor door opened and closed. A woman’s voice called something too muffled to catch. Nina lowered her own voice until the words were nearly swallowed by the machine.
If they tell you I was confused, remember I am saying this clearly. If they tell you I was difficult, remember difficult is what they call a girl who won’t lie flat for them. If they tell you I wanted this, ask them why they were so afraid of what I kept.
Static rose, thin and vicious. For a moment there was only the machine breathing. Then Nina came back, barely there.
Dara, make them say my name properly.
The recording ended there, not with a confession or a clue neatly wrapped for court, but with a small mechanical click and a silence big enough to alter a life. By the time Dara heard it, Nina had been dead three years. By the time the city heard it, no one would be able to pretend the silence had been accidental.