McKnight glared at me. ‘I didn’t tell you earlier, because I was hoping you’d come clean on your own, but your prints are there,’ he said. ‘On two different bottles of wine.’

‘Because it’s John and Vera’s cabin,’ I said, my voice choking at the words, anger churning once again. ‘We drank a lot, okay?’

He glanced at an errant bottle of wine on my coffee table. He didn’t say another word, but his eyes fixed on me, judging. It was easy to see myself as he did: a high-strung, alcoholic Brooklyn bitch. Someone who’d fucked her friend’s husband and then killed him when things didn’t go her way, attempted to hightail it out of town as soon as the memorial service was over. The narrative was infuriating, story after story of unhinged woman, of girl gone mad, told and whispered and reported, laying the foundation for his beliefs about me.

‘If John had taken half a bottle out to the cabin when he was working, one I’d helped him drink, of course my prints would be on it.’

‘Of course,’ McKnight said. ‘I suppose that’s why identifying the owner of that underwear will help. As well as seeing what turns up on your laptop and from our search here.’

My gaze darted around the room – I wanted him out, I wanted all of them gone – now. I needed to know if they’d found my hiding spot, if they’d taken those parts of me, too. I needed a second to think. ‘You’ve got it wrong,’ I said, drawing in staccato breaths. ‘I don’t care how it looks, you’re still wrong. And every moment you spend on me is time wasted.’

McKnight leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees. ‘Is it, Miss King? Because no one else in this investigation has lied to us from the start – and in official reports, too. We have to dig deeper into someone who’s made false statements on record.’

The woman took a few steps back, giving us space, as McKnight drummed his fingers on his knees. ‘Here’s the thing: Maybe you’re innocent. Maybe you got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there are things you aren’t telling me. And when you’re not frank with me, about your relationship with Mr Nolan, about what happened that day on the hike, what am I supposed to believe? Now, is there anything else you want to tell me?’

I wished I could tell him about Davis, ask McKnight to investigate him, but I couldn’t. If they spoke to him, he would twist it all – it would only serve to make me look more suspicious. Instead, I jerked my head toward McKnight. ‘Are you arresting me?’