I killed Leah.

Vomit streams from my mouth, spattering her polished wooden floor.

Even after everything she has done. Every part of my life that she tried to take for her own.

In the end it was me who took hers.

Suddenly, there is a blur of gray launching toward me. I scream and take a few steps back before realizing it’s just a cat. A very fluffy, very happy cat who is now mewling and rubbing herself against my legs as if she hasn’t seen anyone in months.

Actually, it’s a he. I remember now, Leah had posted hundreds of pictures of him when she first adopted him about six months ago. His name is Earl. Because he’s gray. Earl Grey. Get it? Leah thought it was hilarious, she promised to get him a sister one day and call her Lady. She’d barely mentioned him for the past couple of months, though. I’d wondered if she’d got rid of him, or if something tragic had happened. But no, I guess she just got bored and moved on to the next exciting thing, replacing her affections with yoga or kombucha or whatever the new exciting trend was.

I’m more of a dog person if I’m brutally honest. Cats generally don’t warm to me; but Earl is acting like I’m the only person he would want to be close to in this moment. I pick him up and he squirms on to his back so I’m holding him like a newborn human, his purr vibrating across my chest. I swear there is a self-satisfied smile on his face.

In the kitchen I find one of those cat auto-feeder things and a water fountain that appears to give him a constant river of fresh water. All the mod cons can’t make up for human interaction though. That’s why I wouldn’t let Chris get a puppy; we’re just not home enough to take on an animal. I’m going to have to find someone to give Earl a proper home.

I walk around Leah’s house, taking a measure of her life, of who she had become. Perhaps, if I can prove—irrevocably prove—that she was a terrible person, I can justify what I did. To myself at least. Or if not justify it, then find a way to live with it. Her house is full of the hallmarks of a life lived well, a life lived fully, of fun and laughter. At least that is what you would think if you were a visitor. A wonderfully cultivated veneer.

A huge bookcase dominates the living space, wall to wall and ceiling to floor, filled with thousands of books. Leah does not read. I inspect the volumes: a wall of thrillers; another of Booker and Pulitzer winners; volumes of poetry, essays by influential writers, non-fiction about philosophy and politics and popular technology; classic novels and plays. The spines are broken on most of them; they sit in a slightly lumpy fashion, a few on their sides as if they are being read. There are gaps. A few books sit on the coffee table in front of the sofa, a pair of glasses balanced on top. I pull one of the books from the shelf, the spine broken in three careful lines. The pages are pristine. The cover spotless. No one has ever read this book despite it being made to look like someone has. This entire library is a backdrop. A carefully curated and effort-filled prop in the life of a woman who cared too much about what strangers thought and not enough about what those who loved her felt.