Harrison’s second album bombs. Melody gets pregnant. They break up. He texts me a long, sad missive, which at first I think is sweet (that he’s seen the press) but, then, in true Harrison style, turns out to be selfish (he hasn’t written anything since we broke up and needs his muse back). I don’t text back. Instead I tell myself I’m strong, independent, don’t need anybody, and then mope around the house, scared to go outside, looking out the window for Mr Tall and Creepy. I commit to a daily green juice. That commitment lasts three days. I mope some more. I apply for jobs. I write to Hyacinth to tell her there may be reference calls on the way and find out that The Paris Observer has closed its doors. Hyacinth’s shitty moods make so much more sense now. This makes me sad on one hand but happy to think that Stan will now have to find a new job and may end up ‘freelance’ like me. I consider sending him a ‘how to write a blog’ post but don’t. Instead, I apply for more jobs. I get an interview. I have a panic attack on the Tube because someone near me is wearing perfume with a strong note of orange blossom, and as I breathe it in I think of that morning I discovered they’d found Sabine’s body. I get a job. I immediately start planning a trip to Japan I won’t be able to afford for eighteen months. I have flashbacks all the time. I imagine a world where Thomas wasn’t caught, where he moved from amateur to seasoned killer. Would he have developed a calling card? An initial? A flower? Or would he have continued to walk this earth unnoticed, blending in seamlessly with the good and obedient people of the world?

And then I think of his concerned text message that morning after I gave him the flick: Hi Harper, I’m not sure what happened yesterday but I think you’re right, it’s best we end things. Just let me know you’re okay. T. And I run through all the reasons he might have sent that. Maybe it was part of some sick ploy to get me to trust him and he got off on duping his victims. Maybe he wanted to feel in control. Or, the scariest of all, maybe Thomas genuinely saw himself as a good man.

Of course, there’s another one too: he thought my mother had a photograph of him. So, if one day she got hold of my phone records, he wanted it logged that not only was our fling over but he was fine with it. Just fine.