Thirty minutes. That’s how long it took for Dan to finally be alone. With the door slightly ajar, I heard a number of people enter and leave his room, but that’s all I heard. Every time I tried to leave the bathroom to see Dan, someone else would round the corner to demand his attention. Waiting, waiting, waiting had been a lesson in frustration, and instruction in the art of patience. And, when I finally entered the study, there was Dan, slumped over his desk with a knife sticking out between his shoulder blades, a pool of dark liquid beneath him.

‘Dan, you’re not funny,’ I hissed at him.

When there was no reply, I walked further into the room. And still Dan remained slumped over his desk.

‘Dan, I know this evening is about you bleeding me for more money. Well, I’m not giving you another penny – and I’m not giving you my restaurant either. So you can do your worst—’

And still he didn’t move.

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Dan, could you look at me, please? What d’you hope to achieve with this stupid-assery? Am I supposed to run screaming from the room?’

I walked round his precious desk to confront him. He’d gone all out on this one, right down to the fake blood pool beneath him. He couldn’t know I was still in his apartment so this charade had to be for someone else’s benefit. Who? His brother? Bella? Patrix? I didn’t care. I’d had it with Dan and his juvenile idiocy. That’s when I grabbed the knife and pulled it from his back. Except the joke was on me. A drop of real blood dripped down from a real blade. Only then did I notice that Dan had more than one puncture wound in him. My attention went back to the knife in my hand.

And, in that moment, I knew I was in a shit-ton of trouble.

Panic is a strange thing. It grabs you and redwashes your thoughts. It plays tricks with time, speeding it up and slowing it down and turning it on its head, but all within a single moment. I thought I was acting rationally as I replaced the knife in Dan’s back, aiming at the exact same spot I took it from. Then I used my blouse to wipe the hilt. All I could think about was removing my fingerprints in case the police thought I’d killed him. It only occurred to me afterwards that, in creating an escape route for myself, I’d also provided one for Dan’s murderer if their fingerprints were also on the murder weapon. And, to be honest, I couldn’t even be sure I’d wiped off all my fingerprints as I was in such a state by then.

So stupid.