But that message. What is it talking about, what does it refer to? I think of the police officer photographing my feet. Have I forgotten something that somehow, in a haze, I have done? I wasn’t well last year, I know that. And Sarah’s death happened around that time, didn’t it? Isn’t that what the news article said? Last April. When things had already started to go wrong for me, building to the summer when I missed the checks, lied in the log sheet, because I wasn’t coping, but was doing my best to look as though I was.

And who would have my personal number? Who would be messaging me like this? I have so few people in my contacts, and the number was blocked. But you put your phone number in that Facebook group, I think. When you posted your message about Sarah.

Is that what this is about? Sarah, her death? Or – is it about something from longer ago? From back then? Another time when I wasn’t well, and hardly knew what I was doing? Is there someone out there who knows about that, who has chosen now to hurl the accusation at me?

But who then? And who would think to message me like this?

I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. I don’t look well. I don’t look well.

I force myself to think rationally.

If you did something, I tell myself, the police would know. Abayomi would know. You wouldn’t hear about it in a message like this. And if it’s to do with what happened back then, why would anyone bring that up now? And still the shock of those words closes all of my questions down. I have been so curious, so set on investigating, overturning stones, finding everything out. Now all I want to do is crawl into a corner, hide, disappear. Make sure no one can see me. Make sure nothing about me can be seen.

I turn the running tap back off. I dry my face with a towel, pressing the soft material into my skin, tangled in a storm of memories: hands pulling me away. Blue skin. The ambulance’s scream. I breathe in the smell of detergent and try to ground myself. Eventually I’m able to go back through into the hallway and switch on the light. My bones feel so stiff as I crouch down to pick up my phone. Hands shaking as though I’m trying to snap a lead on a dog that has just bitten me, I swipe at the text and delete the message.

Next door in his bedroom, Charlie is cosy under his duvet. We’re both here, in our home, and he’s sleeping sweetly.

And nothing here feels safe any more.