We’ve all seen enough crime series on TV to know that rigor mortis sets in fairly quickly and so I know I don’t have time to waste. But even so, it’s tricky to maneuver her. I’m grunting and sweating as I half drag and half carry her across the deck to the outhouse, praying that the noise I’m making doesn’t attract some early dog walker. Lifting her into the freezer takes the last vestiges of my strength. I smooth her hair from her face and close her eyes before I lower the lid.

Out of sight, out of mind. But she will never be out of sight, will she? I see her everywhere I look, reflected in every surface, in every mirror. She will haunt me always. I don’t deserve any less.

Just please, please, please don’t let Chris find out what I’ve done. I say it over and over again in my head.

What would he do if he did find out?

The sun rises over the water, huge clouds in the distance streaking the sky with reds and pinks like the underbelly of a farmed salmon. There is a smear of blood on the deck, now viscous and sticky black in the gray light. I need to clean up. To make sure that anyone passing by would have no idea we were ever even here. Not that anyone does just pass by, but you never know if a rambler will go off-piste and think they could eat their picnic from this deck with the fantastic view over the lake.

I scrub and scrub, the scent of bleach burning my nostrils. I lock the storeroom, checking it is secure over and over. I don’t look inside. Don’t peek into the chest freezer. What to do with her… That is part of the plan I haven’t worked out yet. Satisfied with my cleaning job—perhaps I should thank Chris for being such a perfectionist, at least I know how to make sure I haven’t missed a bit—I walk the mile back to my car. I’m almost there, the glint of the rising sun bouncing off the roof of my sensible hatchback, when a tiny flash of inspiration ignites the early embers of a plan.

Could I possibly pull it off?

I hadn’t seen her for years, not properly at least, unless… It wouldn’t need to be for long, a few weeks, maybe a month. And it’s not like I haven’t studied every inch of her Instagram life, lapping up every tiny detail like a deranged fangirl.

I get in the car and drive a mile or so down the road to a different National Trust car park used frequently by dog walkers. My drive up yesterday has left splashes of mud up the sides of the Ford Focus and it blends beautifully in with the other grubby cars; no one will notice if it’s here for a few days.

I trek back to the cabin through the forest. It is almost peaceful in the frigid air of the dark winter. This is my favorite time of year. When it feels as if the winter may last forever, like time is suspended and will stretch on for eternity. Days and days of endless gray in which to cocoon yourself from the outside world and the normal sense of constant change and flux.