‘Weird,’ I tell him. ‘I thought someone pretending to be me had shot her dead inside her own house. I had a panic attack on the spot, right in my mother-in-law’s living room. Luckily no one else was home.’

‘And what about this…’ Freddie clicked onto a news article, this time static, and enlarged the headline:

WOMAN SHOT DEAD IN VERMONT CONFIRMED AS SERIAL KILLER RHIANNON LEWIS:

Sister IDs Body

‘I didn’t get it,’ I tell him. ‘I didn’t understand why Seren had said the woman was me. It was obviously, judging from the news reports, some doppleganger who’d been hanging around her place, breaking in, scaring her kids for months. But Seren had shot her stalker in the face and told the police she was me. She identified the body. She wouldn’t have got it wrong – she’s my only relative.’

‘Right,’ says Fred. ‘But you don’t look like you used to anymore.’

‘Even so, my own sister would know. She just would.’

‘But she’s made the whole world believe it was you. Any idea why? Every news outlet, every Tumblr thread, every Twitter tag, everyone believes Rhiannon Lewis is officially dead.’

‘Except Géricault,’ I snort.

‘Yeah well, she’s a detective. She’s programmed to look beyond the obvious. But it looks like the American police are taking it as self-defence, doesn’t it? They haven’t jailed Seren yet at least. She’s done you a big favour if you ask me.’

‘Well, she did owe me one. Or two.’

Freddie shook his head. ‘If I were you, I’d want to know more. I’d want to know why she’s identified that body as you. Are you on your way to Vermont to see her?’

‘No, I’m here for the safety deposit box, I told you.’

He glances at the cardboard box. ‘So what’s in there?’ He has that look in his eyes – his journalist look, the one he was always sidling up to me with on my doorstep. He knew there was more to this visit than met the eye.

‘Just… souvenirs.’ I pat the top of the box to tantalise him. It works – he licks his lips.

Freddie’s eyes thin and he bites his lower lip. ‘What kind of souvenirs?’

‘My souvenirs,’ I tell him.

‘Vermont is only a few hours away. You sure you didn’t engineer this trip just so you could pay your sister a visit? You sure this safety deposit box thing is on the level?’

‘Quite sure, Inspector Clueless.’

He laughs. Sluggers is significantly quieter now – all the baseball and basketball games have finished and only the hard drinkers are left at the bar, like on Cheers, mumbling world views to the barman who looks nothing like Ted Danson. More like Charles Manson. ‘So… I guess that brings us up to date.’ He closes his notebook and clicks off the pen.