“Sorry,” I mutter. “It’s just… so…”

“Infuriating? Irritating? Yet another symbol of gross incompetence in a system designed to keep you safe but that fails continually?” Another man has entered the small room while I’ve been ranting, without me hearing him. I see a suited man in his early fifties.

“Well… yes,” I say curtly.

“We understand you are upset, Ms. Patterson.” He is almost chiding me. “But that kind of attitude won’t help anyone, will it, hmm?”

I want to slap the smug, supercilious look off his face. “Who are you?”

“I’m here at the request of the chief of police. Let’s just say that I work in a department that is committed to ensuring the public continues to feel safe and secure when they go to bed at night.”

“You’re a PR guy?” I hate PR guys, all spin and bullshit. Unless, obviously, it’s my bullshit that I need to spin.

“I’m here to offer you an apology for the errors that have been made. Please accept our deepest regrets and assurances that all accusations of police mishandling will be dealt with internally. However, I must inform you that there will never be a public acceptance of any failings and should you seek one, we will be forced to take action.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means we’re sorry. But you need to keep quiet.”

“Or else what?”

“I’m sure we can think of something, Ms. Patterson.” He spins on his heels and is gone.

“So…” DCI Rosenmeyer starts, “now that things have been cleared up a little bit, let’s move on shall we? So, Chris forced you to go to the police. OK—”

He is interrupted by Vicky entering the room. Her skin is ashen and her eyes flick to mine only briefly, unable to hold my gaze for longer than a second. She doesn’t need to say anything; I can read her body language perfectly. She has been sent to tell me they have found the body.

“It’s Megan, isn’t it?” I whisper.

She nods. “I’m so sorry.”

“Is she…”

She nods again. “Yes.”

“Where?”

“There was a chest freezer.”

My hand flies to my mouth and Vicky steps back a few paces. Then the image of my sister’s face, forever frozen into the same shocked expression as when the bottle first struck, comes to the forefront and I taste bile. Somehow, for the first time I think, the realization that my sister is gone finally hits home. Perhaps it is the involvement of someone from the outside, staring at me with the abstract compassion police officers and other people employed to impart the worst of news to families and friends are trained in. My sister is dead. She is never coming back. No matter how much I hated her, how many times I had sworn that I would kill her, the anger and the irritation and the sheer exasperation of her. She had been a part of me forever and now I am all alone.