This is the first draft of a work in progress story that has been floating around in my head for the past two years. I figured I better get it out on paper before I go completely mad. 

Chapter One.

He shouldn’t have worn red. That was his first mistake. On a normal day, under normal circumstances, red was a perfectly satisfactory colour to wear to an interview. Today however, was not a normal day, and it wasn’t a normal interview.

            As he strode through the doorways of the building, the stark appearance of white was what greeted him first. White walls, white floors, and white furniture.  He half wondered if the person he was meeting with would be in a white straight-jacket to round off the entire experience.

            He pushed up the sleeves of his burgundy cable-knit sweater, suddenly feeling very over dressed and in a colour too bright and violent for the occasion. He half wondered if he still had time to turn around, drive back to his hotel room and change.

            “Can I help you sir?” A plump graying woman behind the white desk asked, smoothing down her ivory coloured shirt as she stood.

            “I’m Dylon Lowell, I have an interview scheduled with Ms Faye,” He said in an authoritative voice. Even as a child, Dylon had been able to command a room. Paired with boyish good looks, he was always told to go into a career path that would favour his charm. The thought of law school had intrigued him, but so did the idea of fame and recognition. He had gone into a career of journalism and had been making a name for himself ever since. Now, one of the top reporters for the Globe & Mail, he was tasked with one of the most daunting interviews of his career.

            “I’m sorry Mr Lowell, but Ms Faye is not allowed visitors that have not been cleared with our facility,” The woman said before sitting back at the desk and resuming the typing on her computer.

            “If you’d please check the list…,” Dylon said, leaning against the counter, a smile crossing his lips as he looked down at her bosom where her name tag was located, “Candice, it would be greatly appreciated. I had called ahead and cleared this with her doctor.”

            The woman flushed, pushing some of the grey strands of hair back into her bun, “If you could please have a seat, I’ll check this right away for you.”

            Dylon walked back into the waiting room as the receptionist made a few hushed phone calls. He looked at the white walls that were decorated with simple pictures of doves and swans. Everything about the institution’s waiting room had him on edge, and he couldn’t stop thinking on how much the red sweater was the wrong choice.

            “Mr Lowell?” The woman called out from behind the desk, “If you could please check in at the next room any personal belongings that may be deemed a hazard to the patients, they will then show you to the living room where our patients are situated.”

            He flashed another smile in her direction, “Thank you – have a great day, Candice.”

            Dylon walked through the adjacent doors where he was met by a security officer who began to pat down his legs.

            “Please open the briefcase,” The security guard instructed. Dylon obliged, snapping open the old brown briefcase that had been a graduation present from his parents so many years ago when he had received distinct honours from Ryerson University.

            The guard flipped through the briefcase, disrupting some of the papers before pulling out a silver iphone, “This will need to be checked and left here.”

            Dylon raised one of his dark eyebrows at the security guard, “My cell phone?”

            “It’s contraband. The patients here have restricted access to the outside world depending which floor they’re on and what they’ve been checked in for.”

            Dylon stiffened slightly, clearing his throat, “Well, do what must be done. I assume my tape recorder I’ve brought will be fine?”

            “Let me see,” The guard responded, grabbing it out of one of the pouches, pressing play and holding it to his ear – nothing but static came out, “Yep, just make sure everyday you come in you clear this. No pre-recordings allowed.”

            “I don’t plan on being here for more than one day,” Dylon countered, closing the briefcase.

            The guard looked at him hesitantly, “I’d start thinking about your plans a little more carefully if I were you.” The guard asked for a few signatures on different pieces of paper, one for leaving his phone, one regarding confidentiality of the other patients, and one that said he was entering on his own accord however at any time he could be asked to leave and barred from the premise if he broke any of the rules.

            Dylon waited until the door was buzzed open, walking down a long hallway before a second door buzzed. He took one last look at the door that led him to the outside world, back to civilization. With a deep breath he opened the door and entered the patient wing.

            He shouldn’t have been surprised of the muted white colour haunting the room, but it took him off guard. He watched as people moved about. Some playing chess – some reading books – some simply staring off into space. People of all different races and ages across the room.

            There was one person that caught his eye. He knew from the pictures he had seen and stories and videos he watched that it was the woman he was to meet with.

            Her haunting green eyes were staring off into space and her dark brown hair framed her round face and high cheekbones. As Dylon approached the table she sat at, he took in how small and petite her frame was.

            She sat in a daze, her hand absently lifting up to her mouth and picking off pieces of her dry, chapped lips. He watched as she picked a piece of skin off and absently set it down on the table in a neat pile before repeating the action.

            “Ms Faye?” He asked in the same authoritative voice he had used earlier with the receptionist. She flicked her eyes up to look at him, tilting her head slightly as she did so. “I’m Dylon Lowell, we spoke briefly on the phone with your doctor.”

            A small smile crossed her face and he admired how it made her rosy, high cheek bones look even more defined.

            “Is it Tuesday already?” Her voice was soft and remote as she glanced around the room. “And please, call me Morgan.”

            “Do you mind if I have a seat?” Dylon asked, motioning to the table.

            “I’m not quite sure how these things are supposed to go. Do we sit? Do we stand?” Her voice was whimsical and he watched as she slightly rocked her body back and forth as she spoke.

            “I’d prefer to be seated – I’m not sure how long this will take.”

            She said nothing, just nodding at him as she swayed slightly in her chair, pulling her knees to her chest. She was perched like a small bird in muted tones of lavender and grey. As Dylon sat in the chair adjacent to her, he marveled at how large and sturdy he looked at the table compared to her.

            “So what is it that you’d like to know?” She asked in her airy voice before her eyes settled on Dylon. He felt himself shift uncomfortably under her intense gaze. “Most people know the story so I’m not sure how much more I can add to it.”

            “Most people only know the story from what they’ve heard – you’ve never personally commented on what happened.” Dylon cracked open the briefcase on the table pulling out a yellow notepad and blue ball point pen, as well as his tape recorder, “It’s been ten years since the murders, and I’m interested to get your story – before your release.”

            A little sigh left her full lips and he watched as she began to pick at the skin once more. Her gaze hardened softly as she scolded herself about the actions before she folded her hands into her lap. “If I’m going to speak about this story I want to do it the right way. From the beginning. From the start. I’ve been asked to tell this story many times by many different reporters. They always want to know about the ending, never the beginning. They aren’t interested in how I tell the story. As I told you on the phone, I chose you so that I could tell my whole story. My way. From the start.”

            “And what is the start for you?” He asked, turning on the tape recorder and leaning in slightly as he did so.

            “The day the trial began. As you know I wasn’t supposed to be on the jury originally. I was the 13th juror. I was a place holder if someone fell ill or could no longer serve properly.”

            He looked at her perplexed but under the surface he could feel the excitement bubbling. He was definitely getting a story that no one else had, one that had only been speculated about in the media. “Who was it that you had replaced on the jury?”

            “Dakota Hayes,” Her voice was small. “I remember him from the day of the selection. Young…laid back. He just didn’t show up the day of the trial. Neither did juror number fourteen.”

            “Why was that?” He asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice and remain professional. This would be the story that defined his career; he could feel it in every fibre of his being.

            “Because they were dead,” She said in a matter of fact tone, “But no one knew that yet at that point.”

Chapter One.

He shouldn’t have worn red. That was his first mistake. On a normal day, under normal circumstances, red was a perfectly satisfactory colour to wear to an interview. Today however, was not a normal day, and it wasn’t a normal interview.

            As he strode through the doorways of the building, the stark appearance of white was what greeted him first. White walls, white floors, and white furniture.  He half wondered if the person he was meeting with would be in a white straight-jacket to round off the entire experience.

            He pushed up the sleeves of his burgundy cable-knit sweater, suddenly feeling very over dressed and in a colour too bright and violent for the occasion. He half wondered if he still had time to turn around, drive back to his hotel room and change.

            “Can I help you sir?” A plump graying woman behind the white desk asked, smoothing down her ivory coloured shirt as she stood.

            “I’m Dylon Lowell, I have an interview scheduled with Ms Faye,” He said in an authoritative voice. Even as a child, Dylon had been able to command a room. Paired with boyish good looks, he was always told to go into a career path that would favour his charm. The thought of law school had intrigued him, but so did the idea of fame and recognition. He had gone into a career of journalism and had been making a name for himself ever since. Now, one of the top reporters for the Globe & Mail, he was tasked with one of the most daunting interviews of his career.

            “I’m sorry Mr Lowell, but Ms Faye is not allowed visitors that have not been cleared with our facility,” The woman said before sitting back at the desk and resuming the typing on her computer.

            “If you’d please check the list…,” Dylon said, leaning against the counter, a smile crossing his lips as he looked down at her bosom where her name tag was located, “Candice, it would be greatly appreciated. I had called ahead and cleared this with her doctor.”

            The woman flushed, pushing some of the grey strands of hair back into her bun, “If you could please have a seat, I’ll check this right away for you.”

            Dylon walked back into the waiting room as the receptionist made a few hushed phone calls. He looked at the white walls that were decorated with simple pictures of doves and swans. Everything about the institution’s waiting room had him on edge, and he couldn’t stop thinking on how much the red sweater was the wrong choice.

            “Mr Lowell?” The woman called out from behind the desk, “If you could please check in at the next room any personal belongings that may be deemed a hazard to the patients, they will then show you to the living room where our patients are situated.”

            He flashed another smile in her direction, “Thank you – have a great day, Candice.”

            Dylon walked through the adjacent doors where he was met by a security officer who began to pat down his legs.

            “Please open the briefcase,” The security guard instructed. Dylon obliged, snapping open the old brown briefcase that had been a graduation present from his parents so many years ago when he had received distinct honours from Ryerson University.

            The guard flipped through the briefcase, disrupting some of the papers before pulling out a silver iphone, “This will need to be checked and left here.”

            Dylon raised one of his dark eyebrows at the security guard, “My cell phone?”

            “It’s contraband. The patients here have restricted access to the outside world depending which floor they’re on and what they’ve been checked in for.”

            Dylon stiffened slightly, clearing his throat, “Well, do what must be done. I assume my tape recorder I’ve brought will be fine?”

            “Let me see,” The guard responded, grabbing it out of one of the pouches, pressing play and holding it to his ear – nothing but static came out, “Yep, just make sure everyday you come in you clear this. No pre-recordings allowed.”

            “I don’t plan on being here for more than one day,” Dylon countered, closing the briefcase.

            The guard looked at him hesitantly, “I’d start thinking about your plans a little more carefully if I were you.” The guard asked for a few signatures on different pieces of paper, one for leaving his phone, one regarding confidentiality of the other patients, and one that said he was entering on his own accord however at any time he could be asked to leave and barred from the premise if he broke any of the rules.

            Dylon waited until the door was buzzed open, walking down a long hallway before a second door buzzed. He took one last look at the door that led him to the outside world, back to civilization. With a deep breath he opened the door and entered the patient wing.

            He shouldn’t have been surprised of the muted white colour haunting the room, but it took him off guard. He watched as people moved about. Some playing chess – some reading books – some simply staring off into space. People of all different races and ages across the room.

            There was one person that caught his eye. He knew from the pictures he had seen and stories and videos he watched that it was the woman he was to meet with.

            Her haunting green eyes were staring off into space and her dark brown hair framed her round face and high cheekbones. As Dylon approached the table she sat at, he took in how small and petite her frame was.

            She sat in a daze, her hand absently lifting up to her mouth and picking off pieces of her dry, chapped lips. He watched as she picked a piece of skin off and absently set it down on the table in a neat pile before repeating the action.

            “Ms Faye?” He asked in the same authoritative voice he had used earlier with the receptionist. She flicked her eyes up to look at him, tilting her head slightly as she did so. “I’m Dylon Lowell, we spoke briefly on the phone with your doctor.”

            A small smile crossed her face and he admired how it made her rosy, high cheek bones look even more defined.

            “Is it Tuesday already?” Her voice was soft and remote as she glanced around the room. “And please, call me Morgan.”

            “Do you mind if I have a seat?” Dylon asked, motioning to the table.

            “I’m not quite sure how these things are supposed to go. Do we sit? Do we stand?” Her voice was whimsical and he watched as she slightly rocked her body back and forth as she spoke.

            “I’d prefer to be seated – I’m not sure how long this will take.”

            She said nothing, just nodding at him as she swayed slightly in her chair, pulling her knees to her chest. She was perched like a small bird in muted tones of lavender and grey. As Dylon sat in the chair adjacent to her, he marveled at how large and sturdy he looked at the table compared to her.

            “So what is it that you’d like to know?” She asked in her airy voice before her eyes settled on Dylon. He felt himself shift uncomfortably under her intense gaze. “Most people know the story so I’m not sure how much more I can add to it.”

            “Most people only know the story from what they’ve heard – you’ve never personally commented on what happened.” Dylon cracked open the briefcase on the table pulling out a yellow notepad and blue ball point pen, as well as his tape recorder, “It’s been ten years since the murders, and I’m interested to get your story – before your release.”

            A little sigh left her full lips and he watched as she began to pick at the skin once more. Her gaze hardened softly as she scolded herself about the actions before she folded her hands into her lap. “If I’m going to speak about this story I want to do it the right way. From the beginning. From the start. I’ve been asked to tell this story many times by many different reporters. They always want to know about the ending, never the beginning. They aren’t interested in how I tell the story. As I told you on the phone, I chose you so that I could tell my whole story. My way. From the start.”

            “And what is the start for you?” He asked, turning on the tape recorder and leaning in slightly as he did so.

            “The day the trial began. As you know I wasn’t supposed to be on the jury originally. I was the 13th juror. I was a place holder if someone fell ill or could no longer serve properly.”

            He looked at her perplexed but under the surface he could feel the excitement bubbling. He was definitely getting a story that no one else had, one that had only been speculated about in the media. “Who was it that you had replaced on the jury?”

            “Dakota Hayes,” Her voice was small. “I remember him from the day of the selection. Young…laid back. He just didn’t show up the day of the trial. Neither did juror number fourteen.”

            “Why was that?” He asked, trying to keep the excitement out of his voice and remain professional. This would be the story that defined his career; he could feel it in every fibre of his being.

            “Because they were dead,” She said in a matter of fact tone, “But no one knew that yet at that point.”