An obstetrician checks me over. She is kind and efficient and my eyes will her to see all the words I can’t say, but I’m not getting through to her because Ross is doing all the talking for me. Now I’m having my bloods taken. I’m being wheeled away for a scan. I’m being taken to the antenatal ward.

Someone brings me a cup of tea and some biscuits. Ross strokes my hair with the same hands he used to strangle Catherine, and still I can’t speak. He kisses my forehead and whispers apologies in my ear and tells me he is free at last and that he’s never felt happier and more hopeful in his entire life and that, between us, we’ll get through this. He will sort things out, he says, as calmly as if he is telling me what he intends to cook us for dinner. I just need to trust him, he says.

Trust him. Oh my God. The enormity of what he’s done crashes about in my head. Who is this man? Do I know him at all?

At last, when the curtains are drawn around us and we are left on our own, a sentence begins to form in my mouth. “But what—”

He puts his forefinger to his lips and tells me to hush. Then he holds my hands in his and starts to speak. His hands are warm and dry. His voice is controlled and calm. It’s the sort of voice a doctor might use with his patients. Ross is a doctor. Authoritative, but gentle. No hint of unnecessary emotion.

“She’s the most vindictive person you can imagine,” he says.

All I can do is blink at him. Why is he talking about her in the present tense when he knows she’s dead? I moisten my lips. He must think I’m going to say something, because he puts his forefinger on my lips now, pressing them gently shut.

“She’d never have let me go. Never. She’d have ruined everything, don’t you see? She’d have accused me of inappropriate behavior at work. Or worse. Much worse. She’s threatened to do it before. She’d have said I raped her. And they’d have believed her, wouldn’t they? Because that’s what she’s like. She’ll convince anyone of anything. It’s what she does. She’s controlled me from the start. Made me do things…”

He releases my hands and rakes his hair with his fingers. It’s the first sign that he’s in any way perturbed by what’s happened. I think of him sobbing onto her neck, then gripping it with his fingers, squeezing the life out of her. My pulse begins to race.