“It’s her,” I say softly.

We head back to the interview room and Vicky clicks on the tape once more.

“Can you just confirm her full name for the record.”

I take a deep breath. This recording will be played in court, I am sure of it, and so I want to get it exactly right. “This is Leah Patterson. I confirm that the body I was just shown is that of my sister Megan Hardcastle, née Patterson.”

The area of the police station where I have given my statements is obviously set far away from the cells where they keep the real criminals. It’s a bit of a shame though. I would love to have seen his face as they brought him in in handcuffs. As they read him the list of charges I have leveled against him. Charges they will prove, and collect corroborating evidence of, over the next few days. I want to look him in the eye and see the knowledge that he is absolutely fucked. And that there is nothing he can do about it.

Instead, I watch the news on TV. It is the lead story, something violent and shocking to break the constant COVID reporting that otherwise dominates.

The reporter stands outside the hospital and says that Chris has been arrested on suspicion of homicide and kidnapping and has been treated here for a head injury requiring ten stitches. I really did hit him hard.

The shot switches to outside the red-doored garage, where a team of hazmat-suited individuals crawl over the space searching for evidence with which to nail him to the cross. The cameraman manages to get a zoomed-in shot of one of them picking up something green with a pair of oversized tweezers. It is a sweater in the softest green cashmere. They move a few inches and pick up a scrap of burgundy silk that used to be a pair of panties. As they pick them up the light glints off something hidden underneath.

It had broken my heart when I smashed the heel of Chris’s shoe into the face of the Jaeger-LeCoultre watch Tom had bought. Although it escaped almost unscathed, a testament to craftsmanship and quality. There is a scratch on the face that will be easy to fix if I can ever get it back from evidence.

The screen cuts back to the hospital as reporters and photographers jostle for space, waiting for Chris to be escorted to the police station for questioning.

He looks angry. Angry and wild, like an animal caught in a trap. A big stick-on dressing runs across his forehead and down toward his left ear. It looks like a sanitary towel. He will hate this footage that makes him look like a violent fool. He has been dressed in surgical scrubs, faded green ones; I’m assuming they took his clothes to search for evidence. My blood is on them. My hairs. Some spit and snot for good measure.

A dozen microphones are thrust into his face as the police try to maneuver him toward the waiting car.