My heart is pounding as I watch him watching Jacob. His face is almost unrecognizable from that of the husband I know and love. His jaw is set and his fixed eyes are empty and dark, seemingly devoid of anything other than hate and intent.

Struggling for breath and with fingers that feel anaesthetized, I fumble for the mouse and will myself to remember what I’ve just done. I can’t let anyone see this, but my brain just won’t cooperate with my hands.

I cut and chop whole frames of time, indiscriminately hacking at whatever’s there, desperate to erase all trace of anything that may incriminate me, and now, more importantly, Leon. If the police get wind of him and me being here on the night Jacob disappeared, the spotlight of suspicion will rest firmly on us both; the only distinction being that I know I’ve not done anything wrong. The sickening swirl in the pit of my stomach tells me that I can’t say the same for Leon.

18

‘Hi, I’m home,’ I call out as I step into the hallway, desperately trying to sound as normal as I possibly can. But he knows me well enough to hear the falter in my voice; he may even be able to see the horrific images playing out in my head. Because try as I might, I’m unable to stop the rolling film of him bludgeoning Jacob to death.

I brace myself against the hall wall, biding my time, waiting for some kind of divine intervention to tell me how best to approach this.

When I walk into the kitchen, Leon’s standing there barefoot, tending the pot on the stove. ‘You OK?’ he asks, when I go straight to the fridge for wine. He looks like the same man, sounds like the same man, but everything’s different.

‘We need to talk,’ I say, going to the cupboard to get a wine glass. ‘Do you want one?’

He stops stirring and looks at me, no doubt trying to gauge the seriousness of what I’m about to say.

‘Do I need one?’ he asks.

I take out two cut-glass goblets – a wedding gift from Leon’s parents – and start to pour the already open bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

‘Can you come and sit down?’

‘Mmm, sounds ominous. Should I turn the pan down?’

I want to tell him to turn it off altogether as I can’t imagine either of us are going to have much of an appetite after this.

I nod and lead the way into the living room.

‘So . . .?’ he asks.

‘You remember my client, Jacob Mackenzie?’ My stomach lurches as he shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly.

‘What about him?’ he asks.

I swallow, wishing I could stop this conversation. ‘Well, he’s gone missing.’