I’m lying on a cot in my jail cell, staring at the ceiling, thinking about the look on Marcus’ face when I shot him. He didn’t look afraid or angry, more like betrayed.

I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to block out the image.

I thought getting revenge would give me peace of mind and justice for Tim, but Instead, I’m feeling a deep sense of sadness and regret.

I hear a voice say, “Did killing Marcus reap the rewards you were hoping for?” I jerk to a sitting position. On the other side of my small cell is a woman sitting in a chair that wasn’t there before.

I look at the door; there’s no way she could’ve gotten in without me hearing her.

“How?” I stammer. I study her. She sits with her legs crossed, her hands clasped together, resting on one knee. Despite the fact that she magically appeared in my cell, there is something very unnerving about her.

She doesn’t say anything, but sits there watching me. I swing my legs over the edge of the cot and sit facing her.

“How did you get in here?” I incredulously ask. She doesn’t answer; instead, looks away for a moment.

It’s when she turns her head back towards me that something seems familiar about her. Had I seen her before? But where? Did I know her from school? Or could she be someone I had awarded money to?

That’s when it hits me.

“You.” I point at her. “You were in the room when Marcus shot Tim. You were the one who called 911.”

Smiling, her eyes meet mine. “Very good. I’m impressed.”

“But you look the same. You haven’t aged.” I say. She continues watching me with the same frozen smile on her face. I begin to feel fear like I’ve never felt before. “Who are you?” I ask in a whisper.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“Your story has been, by far, the most interesting. You never do what I expect.” She replies, ignoring my question.

“What are you talking about?”

She tilts her head, “Come on, Robin, you’re clever. You can figure it out.” Her words send chills down my spine.

In so many words, it’s similar to how the man spoke to me when I first appeared in the dark room. I look around the room. There’s no indication of how she got into my cell undetected.

I look back at her.

“Are you the one that put me in that room?” I ask, assuming she knows what I’m referring to.

“Don’t ask questions for answers you already know.”

Now I’m angry. I stand up, look her square in the face, and challenge her. “What do you want? Are you here to torture me some more? Why don’t you be straight with me?” My hands curl into fists, the joints aching from arthritis, reminding me of my age. I fight back tears, refusing to cry. She looks up at me.

“You never answered my first question,” she says; I try to remember what’s been said. She asks again, “Did killing Marcus reap the rewards you were hoping for?”

I see myself playing with Marcus when we were children. My despair as I watched him shoot Tim and the shock of seeing myself shoot Marcus.

I feel a deep emotional pain explode in my chest and begin sobbing. I have to sit down for fear of losing all control and falling to the floor: So much pain, so much grief, and so much regret.

The terrible things that I have done isn’t me. I’m not this person. But I shot and killed one of my best friends just because he convinced me to open a safe, not knowing the consequences.

Finally, my tears slow to a stop, leaving me completely spent. The woman shows no reaction to my crying outburst, remaining still for a length of time before speaking.

“Humans always say that if they could do it over again, they would choose differently, but I have never believed that. At least until now.”

I wipe my eyes, waiting for her to continue. “So I will offer you what I have never offered anyone else before.”

I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my chest. What more can I endure?

“The chance to go back and choose differently.” She says.

“You can send me back in time?” I ask.

She smiles. “If you want.”

“Yes, please.” My voice is now barely above a whisper.

“But with one catch. Opening the safe this time may not result in the same outcome.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. She shrugs her shoulder.

“Maybe it will have the same contents as before, or maybe something will be different.” As she tells me this, she looks like she’s trying not to smile like a cat playing with a mouse.

“You mean… like money?” She shrugs again and looks away.

“Maybe, or maybe not. Do you want a second chance?” She asks.

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

In the next instant, I’m back in the old house’s basement, standing in front of the antique safe again.