She puts the notebook back and digs around in the box, looking for the one she used during the Housemate Homicide story: A4 with a plain beige cover, filled with hundreds of pages of notes, phone numbers and questions. She runs her hand over the textured surface, remembers holding it as she watched Isabelle at the press conference the day after Evelyn’s body was found. Jo stood next to Oli and bitched about the incompetence of the police, having rushed back from the country wedding. Oli, on the other hand, was mesmerised by Isabelle. The young detective spoke clearly, her voice feminine but powerful. She confirmed that Evelyn Stanley had been murdered, stabbed with a kitchen knife and left to die in the hallway. Her housemate Alexandra Riboni had been arrested. She’d confessed to the crime. Nicole was missing, presumed harmed.

Oli rubs her eyes, looks around the room. A framed map of Italy hangs on the far wall. A sleek silver pencil holder sits on the desk. Books on the bookshelf. Isabelle’s things. Dean understandably wants to retain keepsakes for the girls, but surely this entire room doesn’t need to be closed off, treated like a minimalist shrine. Oli sighs. It’s difficult to separate Dean from his past. So many things compete for his attention. Funny how it seemed simple when they first met: only one obstacle. Now, over a decade later, she has what she wished for. Isabelle is gone.

The heater has switched off, and a light chill runs across Oli’s shoulders. She pulls her dressing-gown tighter, then unfolds herself and stands up, her knees cracking. Walking over to the shelf on the other side of the room, she rubs the small of her back. Picks up a glass vase. Runs her finger along the ornaments. Isabelle may be gone, but Oli’s curiosity is as ravenous as ever.

She pauses before she slides open the left wardrobe door. It’s jam-packed with boxes and bags. A pair of high heels stands on the wooden floor; she squats to pick them up. They’re small, size seven. Black velvet with diamantes studded along the straps. Her feet are two sizes bigger.

As she stands, her head brushes against something soft. From the wardrobe’s silver rod hang a few clothing bags, grey and shapeless, their tails tucked behind a stack of boxes.

Her hands shake as she unzips the first bag, loud against the quiet of the house. She freezes. A police uniform, out of date, perhaps twenty years old. Her heartbeat thrums in her neck. She tugs the zip shut and pushes the bag to the left, exposing the throat of the next bag. Inside, two dresses share a hanger: one is cherry-red, the other black and beaded. Both look expensive, the material finely woven. In the final bag is a snow-white wedding dress of sleek satin. Oli detects a faint floral fragrance.