The Blood on Her Hands
Iris stared at her hands.
The blood was still wet, still warm, still spreading across her palms like crimson paint. She didn’t remember doing anything. She didn’t remember the lights going out. She didn’t remember the scream.
But the blood was there.
And Detective Walsh was gone.
“Iris? Iris, can you hear me?”
A voice. Distant. Muffled. Coming from somewhere outside the room.
Iris looked up.
The door was still open. The hallway beyond was dark, the emergency lights flickering weakly. She stood up. Her legs were numb. Her head was spinning. She walked to the doorway and peered out.
The hallway was empty.
But there was blood on the floor.
A trail of it, leading away from the interview room, disappearing around a corner.
Iris followed it.
Her bare feet were cold on the linoleum. The jumpsuit was thin, cheap, offering no warmth. The emergency lights cast long shadows on the walls, and every shadow looked like a figure, every figure looked like a threat.
She turned the corner.
The blood trail led to a door. A supply closet. The handle was slick with red.
She opened the door.
Detective Walsh was inside.
She was alive.
She was tied to a pipe, her wrists bound with duct tape, her mouth covered. Her eyes were wide with terror. She was shaking her head, trying to scream, trying to warn Iris of something.
But Iris couldn’t hear her.
Because the voice was back.
Don’t untie her.
Why?
Because she’ll arrest you. She’ll lock you away. She’ll take you from me.
Maybe that’s where I belong.
No. You belong with me. In the white room. Forever.
Iris reached for the duct tape.
Her fingers touched the tape.
The voice screamed.
NO!
Iris ripped the tape off Detective Walsh’s mouth.
“Run,” Iris said. “Get out of here. Get everyone out.”
The detective stared at her. “Iris—”
“NOW.”
Detective Walsh scrambled to her feet and ran.
The voice was shrieking now, a wordless howl of rage and pain.
You betrayed me.
I never belonged to you.
You ARE me.
No. I’m not.
Iris walked back to the interview room.
The photographs were still on the table. Twelve faces. Twelve victims. Twelve murders she didn’t remember committing.
She picked up the photograph of Elena Vance.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The lights flickered.
The camera in the corner sparked.
And the voice whispered back:
You will be.
The police station was evacuated.
Officers flooded the building, searching for the source of the power outage, the blood, the screams. They found Detective Walsh in the parking lot, shaking, crying, unable to explain what had happened.
They found Iris in the interview room, sitting in the chair, staring at the wall.
Her hands were clean.
There was no blood.
There was no evidence that anything had happened at all.
The officers led her back to her cell.
She didn’t resist.
She didn’t speak.
That night, Iris dreamed of the white room.
The light was everywhere. The silence was heavy. And the figure was there — the older version of herself, standing in the center of the endless space.
You shouldn’t have done that, the figure said.
I had to.
She’ll testify against you. You’ll go to prison.
Maybe.
You’ll lose everything.
I’ve already lost everything.
The figure stepped closer.
Not everything. You still have me.
Iris looked at the older woman — her face, her eyes, her scars.
I don’t want you.
You don’t have a choice.
There’s always a choice.
The figure smiled.
Then choose.
Wake up.
And face what you’ve done.
Iris opened her eyes.
She was in her cell.
The lights were on.
The door was open.
And standing in the doorway was a woman she had never seen before.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. A smile that wasn’t a smile.
“Hello, Iris,” the woman said. “My name is Dr. Sterling. I’m a psychiatrist. I’ve been brought in to evaluate you.”
“I didn’t ask for a psychiatrist.”
“Detective Walsh did. She thinks you’re a danger to yourself and others.”
Iris looked at her hands.
Clean.
For now.
“What do you want to know?”
Dr. Sterling stepped into the cell and sat on the bench across from her.
“Everything.”