Tom’s face is pale, worried; his new look. He’s wearing a loose T-shirt over track suit bottoms, which reinforces his state of mind, anxious. As a ‘once upon a time’ sports star for the local football club, Tom had learned to master the art of looking cool at all times by never wearing loose T-shirts and track suit bottoms unless you’re about to paint a house or run a few laps around a field. Or as in this case, your life is falling to ruin. I can tell he hasn’t shaved today either, another stress level indicator.

‘Has she said anything yet?’ I whisper, brushing the rain from my bag before unbuttoning my jacket.

‘Nothing much, nothing important, will I get you a cup of coffee?’

‘Ye, thanks.’ I pass the front room door without going in. I don’t want the boys to know I’m home yet. They’ll be all over me if they see me, running around their shrunken house delaying me from hearing what Angela Burke has to say.

Inside the kitchen the atmosphere is strange, nerve-wracking and scary. Burke is sitting at the table and her quiet colleague – whose name I can never remember even though I’ve been told it a few times – is sitting to her right.

There are no folders or pictures or anything else on the table, just two cops eagerly waiting for me to join them.

‘Tom tells me you left work early. Thanks,’ Burke says.

I nod my head. ‘It’s no problem.’

‘Shall we start?’

‘I’ll just make Sal a coffee, you go ahead, I can hear you.’ Tom pours boiling water from the kettle into a mug. My favourite mug. The one with ‘Best Mom Ever’ printed on the side. Amber gave it to me four years ago for Mother’s Day and I seldom use a different cup. It reminds me that she used to believe I was actually the best mom ever. Before she started giving suggestions as to how I could improve.

‘Are you sure you don’t want one?’ Tom says, glancing quickly at the two cops before returning to the job in hand.

‘No thanks.’ Burke runs her hands over the table. She obviously does not like to be left waiting. Her eyes watch Tom’s every move, I bet she’s muttering, ‘Hurry up, for fuck’s sake,’ in her head.

It’s not often Tom makes me a cup of coffee. Not for any reason other than it never seems to work out that way. I don’t often make him one, either, we both get our own.

He lifts the ceramic jar with the word ‘Sugar’ hand-painted on the front of it by some arty person who lives in a tree, then lifts the lid off. Don’t ask, Tom, please… don’t ask.