I recognise the victim immediately. It’s the young blonde girl in that photograph I saw at the cabin. Though she’s older in the pictures in the papers, she still has the same eyes, hair and smile. And she’s the right type: she looks just like me and Matilde. The newspapers tell us that she was his babysitter years before. That she had a small textiles business hand-painting unique designs onto articles of clothing. They find an email from Thomas in her inbox professing his love. They find her rejection.

And they close the case.

As for me, I’m healing. I’m not healing. I’m healing again. It’s a process. I take up jogging. I take up yoga. I take up Pilates. I take up barre. I do none of them. Instead I sit every day and stare at the blinking cursor on my screen and do my best. Because work is the only thing I really have these days.

And I’m okay with that. Work doesn’t bundle you into the boot of a car and handcuff you to a bed. Work has a beginning, a middle and an end, and the end doesn’t involve tears (mostly). Work is something I can do indoors.

The doorknob rattles and I look up.

‘Heya,’ Camilla says as she comes inside. ‘Please tell me you put on pants today?’

She says this line a lot so I don’t take it too seriously.

‘Maybe,’ I say.

‘It’s not healthy. Get dressed, it’s Saturday night. We’re going out.’

She disappears into her bedroom.

‘Where to?’

‘Surprise,’ she yells and then reappears holding up a navy lace top. ‘But I’m dressing you.’

I close down my computer and stand up.

‘I’m not really feeling like it,’ I say.

‘Harps, please. How many things have I done for you?’

I roll my eyes, take the top, and go through to my room where I get dressed and run a brush through my hair.

Twenty minutes later, in the back of an Uber, it’s a blur of traffic lights and headlights and shop windows and beeping and Camilla chatting happily about someone at work.

Then the car slows down and I look outside. Soho. I can see one of my favourite jazz bars up ahead – is that where we’re going?

I get out of the car and stand on the pavement.

‘Bye, give me five stars!’ Camilla instructs the driver. And then he’s gone, and Camilla is taking my hand and saying: ‘Ready?’