My eye begins to twitch as my nerves increase. Kylee shudders beside me, as one would if someone was treading over their grave … We’re a mess, and we’re about to be seen by everyone in the country. My guess is, appearing a mess will be expected.
“Today I’m in the Banks household with Reid Banks, who is a local and upstanding member of our small community. He’s joined by Detective Astin West of the Rockhampton CIB, and missing local wife and mother, Morgan Banks, parents’, Ronald and Kylee Cuttings, also join us. Thank you for allowing me into your home, Mr Banks.”
I nod in response.
“The shock of Morgan’s disappearance is one we believe will be felt throughout our community, and we’re asking anyone who has information to come forward and assist the police. Mr Banks has prepared a short statement he wishes to deliver ... Mr Banks.”
“Thank you, Greg.” My voice wavers. “I’m Reid Banks, and I’m the husband of Morgan Banks. On Thursday night, Morgan, my wife, did not return home from work, although she was en route to our home at the time.
"It’s been over thirty-six hours since she’s been missing, and our families are losing hope that Morgan will be found safe and returned to us. Morgan and I are parents to two beautiful children, who are both missing their mum and just want her to come home.” I stop and take a deep breath. My throat goes instantly dry, and my mouth follows suit. I close my eyes to compose myself and take quick breaths before reopening them. Looking straight down the barrel of the giant video camera situated behind the reporter’s head, I swallow again, trying to bring moisture to my lips, but it doesn’t work. Say something, Reid.
“My Morgan is of a slim build, with chestnut brown hair and dark brown eyes. Morgan's 170 centimetres tall and was wearing a pale pink business blouse and a black business skirt when she left to attend work on Thursday morning, the morning of the day she disappeared. We know a man stopped to help Morgan change a flat tyre on her journey home that evening. Police are investigating his whereabouts. If you were the Good Samaritan”—I stumble over the last two words— “please contact the police and give them any information you can. Morgan is a loving mother to our two children, Brax and Aleeha. She is also a loving and caring wife. Her safe return is our only focus, and until we find her we will not rest.” I stop speaking, and I look into the lens and speak to my wife from my heart, just as West said I should do. “Morgan, honey, if you can see this, please know I love you, we all love you, and I’m doing absolutely everything I can to find you. I’ll never give up. I PROMISE.” I emphasise the word “promise” as I hear Kylee sobbing beside me. “Please help us find Morgan. She’s our world, and without her, we’re nothing. I need my wife to come home; give her back to us. Please, if you’ve taken her, just let her come home.” My voice cracks, on the word “home”. Tears well in my eyes.
“Bring her home,” Kylee sobs.
“Give me back my daughter,” Ronald follows.
“Detective West, what information can you offer the community, and what leads are you and the police force pursuing at this time?”
“Thank you, Gregory. As Mr Banks has said, Morgan is a Caucasian woman, About 170 centimetres tall. With brown hair and brown eyes. She was wearing a pale pink top and a business skirt at the time of her disappearance. We are asking the community to help identify the man who stopped to help Mrs Morgan Banks change a flat tyre on the night of her disappearance, before she was involved in a minor collision close to her home. Morgan’s SUV, number plate B.A.N.K.S 0.2, was recovered on the evening of her disappearance, and we are asking any witnesses who may have seen the collision to come forth also. At this time, we are following many leads and remain positive that we will locate Morgan safe. We need the community’s help. Please, if you have any information call Crime Stoppers.”
“That number for Crime Stoppers is now flashing across the bottom of your television screens. Detective West, have there been any demands for a ransom or calls made to the police in connection with Morgan’s disappearance?”
“We would prefer not to comment on that at this time. But what I can say is that Mr Reid Banks, along with family members, are not suspects in Morgan’s disappearance. They have no involvement and are desperate to have Morgan home. They are cooperating in all matters related to Morgan’s disappearance.”
“Thank you. Again, if you have any information, please call the Rockhampton police or Crime Stoppers.”
Every bit of me hopes someone watching can tell us where Morgan is, and I also hope that psychopathic prick is watching and knows that I’m coming for him. I’ll get my revenge, even if it takes until the final seconds of my life to do so. As Greg’s shoulders slump, and the red lights on the camera behind him disappear, I realise I’m scowling.
I’m going to kill the bastard who took Morgan with my bare hands; I just need to find him.
Morgan
A mirror!
No doubt it’s a trap, and visions of the wolf slitting my throat as I watch my murder in the reflection causes my teeth to bear down as I shiver.
Moving closer, another gleam of light blinds me. This process repeats until I’m flush in front of the mirror. A mirror. Why?
It’s an oval, rustic antique-looking—sterling-silver mirror, and there's writing scrawled on the glass in bright red lipstick.
Morgan, the game is almost over. Look at your reflection; you’re disgusting.
I’ve left a present for you on the back of this mirror, Red.
I’m coming for you.
Who am I?
It becomes hard to swallow. Tears will drown me if I let them fall again. I can’t melt into a puddle of pity like I allowed myself to do before. I need to keep my emotions under control. Visions of Reid and the kids far from my mind. Focus. Focus on what I can do to help myself now, not what I’ll lose if I don’t.
I’m hesitant at the thought of looking behind the mirror. My breathing is rapid. I discard the stick acting as my cane. What is waiting for me behind this mirror resting in the middle of bushland like a prop from a movie set?
I inhale three breaths and hold onto the frame as I shift my position. I gasp, strangling my mouth with my hands, sucking back my need to scream out. I’m haunted. A large photograph. It’s a collage of photos numbered, one through to thirteen. Under each number is a corresponding picture of a woman who has died brutally and disgustingly. The music playing only intensifies the horror these images supply. My mouth falls open, and I dry-heave until my stomach stops rolling over itself. I don’t want to look again, but I force myself to view each one. Any information is important. Do I know any of these women? I soon realise I don’t, not even one from what I can make out from these photographs.
Each visual is worse than the last; my stomach clenches as my heart pounds with a sense of urgency. All I can identify is that each of these women lies lifeless in bushland, and each of these photographs has freshly bloomed roses scattered around the corpse. I start with the first picture and count the roses; there are thirteen. I move to the second and count the stems; also thirteen. I don’t stop until I get to number thirteen, which also has thirteen roses laid out on a white background. There are two words written in the centre of the white background.
Red, RUN!
I spin in a circle … searching. I can sense his presence. Goosebumps coat my skin from my wrists to my ankles.
But there’s nobody here. It’s just me, this mirror, and twelve ghosts who once lived. Twelve spirits who have a horrific story of their own to share, but no voice to do so. I need to be their voice. I need to survive for them, too.
The music stops. My heart thuds one intense beat and then races. I’m not running. I’m still. Fearful. Broken. Hurt. Lost.