I pointed at the coffee table, where it still sat, black-and-white – proof, finally, solid and tangible, that someone else was running the show, someone who wasn’t me. McKnight would have to believe me now.

‘And you heard someone?’ he asked.

I nodded, chin quivering as I thought, again, of him here inside. ‘Dusty was barking, and that’s what woke me up. He doesn’t just bark at anything, okay? I heard the door shut, and when I looked out the window, the porch light had been turned off. I wanted to run after him, but –’ I paused. ‘I couldn’t.’

For once, McKnight looked at me like I wasn’t the enemy. ‘You should never chase after an intruder,’ he said. ‘You did the right thing. Did you touch it?’

I shook my head.

He fished an evidence bag from inside his jacket and, with tweezers, he picked up the letter and dropped it in.

‘It was Sam Alby,’ I said.

McKnight’s eyes narrowed. ‘I thought you said you didn’t see the intruder.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I said, my words tumbling out. ‘This is exactly like the letters he used to send Vera and John. I called his wife yesterday, asking about the spare keys to this place. He must have found out, and –’

McKnight cut me off. ‘Slow down, Miss King. What keys?’

I forced myself to take a breath. ‘Sam has a key here.’

McKnight narrowed his eyebrows. ‘What do you mean?’

I explained my call to Jennifer Moon, how she’d said she kept the keys to all her properties in her home, how I’d discovered that her husband was Sam Alby, that she was far more tied up in this than I had ever expected. When I was done, McKnight nodded, slowly, then pointed toward the kitchen. ‘If Mr Alby had a key, why are there signs of a break-in?’

I shook my head. ‘He didn’t do that.’

His eyebrows furrowed. ‘Who did?’

I fought to hold back tears. I wanted Vera. No, I wanted my mother, for this to all go away. I hadn’t wanted to tell them about Davis, to open that can of worms, but now I had no choice. ‘It was my ex-boyfriend.’

‘When did your ex break into your home, Miss King?’

‘Saturday night.’

McKnight scratched beneath his lip. ‘You’re sure of this?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, he confronted me.’

‘Why didn’t you report it?’

Because you never help women like us.

As if on cue, the baby-faced officer walked out my front door, waiting outside.

‘Miss King,’ McKnight said, his voice quieter than I’d ever heard it. ‘Did your ex give you those marks on your neck?’

‘You don’t understand –’

‘Did he threaten to hurt you if you talked to the police?’