With the second glass of wine heating my veins, I relax. Forget about it, Sal. Leave it to the cops. The television entertains from the corner of the room but I’m not paying any attention to it when the phone rings.

‘Sal.’ Tom is whispering.

‘She admitted it.’ He must be still at the station. I can barely hear him so I ask him to speak up a little.

‘Joyce McCarthy has admitted guilt. She killed her sister.’

Relief. If God was here, I’d thank him personally. The end; no more shit. I feel like a sack of stones has been lifted off my back. I want to cry. To hold Amber, to hold Tom, it’s over.

‘They were going pretty heavy on Kenny, starting to question whether he was involved. When they told Joyce they were questioning her son, she just admitted it.’

‘What?’

‘That’s it… it’s all over.’ He sounds happy for the first time in weeks. I want to go to him. Hold him. Tell him everything will be fine. I know it will… I love him.

‘O… okay. Will you be home soon?’

‘Hopefully.’

Tom hangs up the phone and I go back into the living room. Why does that not sound right to me? What did Tom just say? The cops told Joyce that they were questioning her son about his involvement and then she admitted to the murder. That’ll do it. With the next glass of wine en route to my stomach, I rest my head on the back of the sofa.

My eyes close. Visions of the murdered woman lying dead on the ground fill my head. Poor Claire McCarthy. Bitch Claire McCarthy. How could she do that to her sister? Even if it was her mother’s doing, she had an opportunity to undo it when the mother died. And now, lying in a pool of blood. I’m not sure she deserved that.

Hours later and I’m awake. My head is in pain. My mouth feels like a rat slept in it. Pulling myself into a sitting position, I squint my eyes to look at the clock. Four am. Where’s Tom? Out in the hallway, I notice slits of light coming through Kenny’s bedroom door. Tom must be in bed already. He must have arrived home, found me sleeping on the sofa and decided not to disturb me. The house is locked up, the alarm on.

Switching the small lamp on the hall table on, I walk into the kitchen to get something to drink. Water. Turning on the tap I look out the window. Joyce McCarthy was here. In my garden. The killer. She was looking for her son. I can’t blame her for that. If someone took Amber from me, I’d hang around gardens in the middle of the night looking for her. I’ve done worse.