I send Tom a message: I don’t think we should see each other any more.

He replies quickly: We haven’t seen each other in weeks!

That’s not what I mean, Tom. I just think it might be for the best.

Tom replies with a flurry of messages of love and support. “Leah” asks him to stop harassing her. I need some space to think. He continues to message. He’s starting to beg. “Leah” responds: Leave me alone. You’re frightening me. Do I have to call the police?

Then finally: Tom. I’m really getting scared now.

I back up the texts with emails. One particularly long and rambling one where I miss the odd keystroke and fail to make sense. It ends with: Are you not going to take no for an answer?

This evening, after the national news bulletin, I switch channels. I’ve been looking forward to this moment.

“Local news?” Megan raises an eyebrow at me. “We really are turning into your parents.” She giggles as if it’s funny. How has she not realized what is coming? I do sometimes wonder if she isn’t a bit simple. Perfectly capable of holding down a job and brushing her teeth, of course, but not exactly ever going to get into Mensa.

“Watch.” I enjoy the way the laugh dies on her lips. It took a bit of effort on my part to change which region of local news we could watch. I had to spoof the TV’s location in the end and it was fiddly as hell. I’m not going to let her foolishness spoil this for me.

“Welcome to BBC London.” The crisp accent of the newsreader in her prim little cardigan.

“Aren’t we South East?” Megan asks.

“Just fucking watch.” She will not ruin this.

“Breaking news this evening is the disappearance of a local celebrity, writer and influencer Leah Patterson, who lives in the Belsize Park area of north London.”

Megan turns to look at me.

The newsreader continues: “she was reported missing yesterday by a concerned friend who has asked to remain anonymous at this stage. We are appealing for anyone with knowledge of her recent movements to contact the information hotline number at the bottom of your screens.”

“Who reported her missing?” Megan’s voice is tiny like a child’s.

“Who?” I smile lazily and shift closer to her on the sofa. “Me, of course.” I laugh and reach out to stroke her hair as she recoils from me. “If I can’t get her money alive, then I’ll have to get it dead.”

“But… but…”

“But what? Use your fucking words, Megan. You’re not five!”

“But…”

“I’m not going to tell them it was you, am I? For fuck’s sake.” I tap her temple with my index finger. “Think, Megan. You’re the beneficiary of her will. You can’t be a murder suspect, can you?”

“I… err…” It’s almost painful to watch the cogs trying to turn.

“Let me lay this out for you, shall I?” She nods dumbly. “You cannot access Leah’s money because apparently she didn’t trust you and so used high-level biometrics that you couldn’t break—”