‘They never kept it locked. John told me himself they didn’t even use the key.’

His face fell – disappointment. ‘We know that, Miss King. Ms Abernathy said as much in her initial interview. It’s very common in that area, with a hunter’s shack like that.’

Hunter’s shack. I’d never thought about it that way, but I suppose at the end of the day, it was. Only, nothing had been hunted there. That is, nothing before John.

‘Anything else, Miss King?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s it.’

He sat still, stoic, waiting for me to say more. I didn’t know what he was getting at, and the room felt suddenly hot, but a dry heat, one that makes your pits sweat and your skin split. They probably turned the thermostat up just for situations like this, probably watched Law & Order and took notes. Ellie and I used to consume every dark detective drama we could get our hands on, laughing when the actors overdid it. Only, it wasn’t funny now. ‘Why am I here?’ I asked finally.

McKnight sighed. ‘I was hoping, Miss King, that you’d be more forthcoming.’ He reached beneath the table and pulled out a manila folder, then pushed it toward me. I could only imagine what was in it. Photos of John, dead, supine in his studio, six gaping stab wounds scattered across his torso. Acid rose in my chest, and I pressed my lips together; they were chapped, cracked. ‘Would you like to open the folder, Miss King?’

I held my breath, then whipped it open. At first, I felt relief – a stillness in my bones; my balance, restored – it wasn’t John.

Then my jaw dropped.

The photo in front of me showed a woman, stretched out on a bed, on her side, facing away from the camera, curves undulating like the tops of the East Catskills. Lacy underwear on top and bottom. Curly brown hair.

It wasn’t John; it was me.

In my bed, in my cottage. Spread out, printed, for all to see.

My mind flashed to college, the morning after the stupid video was taken. To waking up, puke rancid on my jeans, and my roommate, on Facebook: Holy shit, girl, you’ve got to see this.

Were the guys on the police squad the same as the guys in college? Probably.

Had every officer laughed in the break room about this? Had they called me a whore? Had they formulated this theory, that I’d killed John for not agreeing to leave Vera, over beers in a pub before going home to their sad, small little lives?

I pushed back my chair almost instinctively and shook my head.

‘Didn’t think we’d find this, Miss King?’

I bit the flaking skin off my lip. ‘I don’t know how you got this or what this is, but –’