I’ve been named in the stalker reports, but the focus is on Peter Daubney and Brian Patterson and they have been given tabloid inches. No one seems to have made the connection between the Caroline Atkinson in this case and Jack Atkinson’s wife in the media explosion that followed. Mainly because I have not once been referred to by name. Poor Jack’s wife. That’s who I was. The victim. But something inside tells me I’m not a victim now. It’s a strange feeling, but I feel like I’ve survived.

I save all the links in a document and bury it in a folder on my external hard drive. I’ll keep monitoring it and adding to it just in case anything crops up.

I turn my computer off. I have to get home. I put my earphones in and select the cheating bastard playlist and Kelly Clarkson is telling me that since you’ve been gone I can breathe for the first time. I’ve been putting it off, wondering what the house will be like with all that space for my thoughts to gather in when I am alone. Lee will have left by now and all my stuff will have gone.

But he hasn’t gone. As I pull up in front of the house, the large van is still there. The skip is piled high with crap and my next-door neighbour is standing looking at it and talking on her phone. She waves at me and goes inside.

Lee appears and stands on my lawn. He’s holding a cup of steaming tea and he smiles at me.

‘Two trips it took. But all booked in and catalogued now. Just have a look in there and make sure there’s nothing you want.’ He points at the skip. ‘And I did a bit of a clean-up. Wasn’t too bad, really, under all that.’

I look in the skip. It’s just papers. Just stuff. None of it matters. I step inside the hallway and the first thing I notice is the echo. The house sounds completely different. I go through to the lounge and feel the carpet beneath my feet. It’s still marked in blocks from the boxes.

‘That’ll fade.’

Lee’s standing behind me, hands on waist.

‘I can’t thank you enough. Honestly, there was no need …’

‘I wanted to. This is such a lovely place, needs looking after. It’s been a pleasure.’

The kitchen looks brilliant. He’s cleaned the table and washed the tiles. The walls have stripes of grease where the cooking has seeped between the piles of white goods. But overall it’s brilliant. I open the fridge and it’s empty.

‘I threw it all out. Start again. Best bet.’

I turn to him.

‘Can I pay you for this? You shouldn’t have to—’