I stared at her. ‘You see, it’s so strange. Because my own feeling is that it happened very slowly. That I sat down. On the sofa. In my nightie. For quite some time. And watched the blood seep out of his head. My recollection is that I did nothing. Some may say through shock, some might say through deliberate design. I know what I think. But I probably need to keep that to myself. Anyway. I remember sitting there, in the dark, until I was really quite cold. Apparently shock does that to you, it does chill you. The police said that was no surprise. It’s why they wrap trauma victims in blankets. But it may also be that it’s cold to sit still for so long in a thin nightgown. Again, I know what I think. I remember checking him occasionally, using the light on my phone. I didn’t time it, but I reckon I sat there for at least half an hour. Waiting for him to—’

‘Don’t say it,’ Ingrid interrupted grimly. She leaned forward, her hand on mine. She gripped it. ‘Don’t say the word,’ she breathed. Her expression was urgent. I blanched in astonishment. Saw something in her eye. Something like gritty determination.

Eventually she spoke. ‘You sat there for two hours and ten minutes,’ she said softly. I inhaled sharply. Couldn’t speak for a moment. I stared at her.

‘You watched me.’

‘Yes. I sat with you.’

‘For that long?’ I whispered.