But if Davis hadn’t killed John, how could I explain the rest of it? My mother’s missing scarf. The photos and note stolen, too. The faucet running just so. The dirt dug from beneath the fence so Dusty could get out.

And more than that, the sinking feeling that Davis wouldn’t rest until he’d punished me; that Ellie had given him the perfect way to do it.

‘Have a second to chat, Miss King?’ McKnight’s voice was familiar to me now, gruff and accusatory, scratchy like he once smoked but didn’t anymore. In front of me, the woman lengthened the legs of a tripod and put a camera on top, training it on me. He gestured toward it as he took the seat opposite. ‘We have to record this, like I mentioned before.’

I bristled. How could I explain it to them: fear and guilt look the same way on film. Catch me now – hair matted, pallor like bone china, beads of sweat in all the right places – and anyone would think I did it.

Catch me now, like this, when I just know that Davis is going to catch me at any minute.

The officer pressed a button, and a blinking light flashed a warning, then kept its eye trained on me, watching.

McKnight reached into his jacket, and I found my eyes landing on the drapes, on the inch or so of exposed window, wishing I had opened them so I could see the road, confirm it was empty, free of Davis.

Dusty jumped onto my lap, but I shooed him off; he whined as he slunk away. From the kitchen, the sound of water being lapped from his bowl. Dusty knew how to self-soothe; I had never learned properly.

McKnight retrieved an evidence bag, marked with words I couldn’t read, then used tongs to pull out its contents, a bra and underwear. ‘Do these look familiar?’ he asked, holding them in front of me.