Returning my attention to the TV, I hope to get some more information about the murder but the news has moved on to some story about a footballer who was killed in a car crash. I’ve never heard of him. I scan social media, but there’s nothing more there either.

For the third time tonight, I find myself checking the back garden. Everything is still and peaceful. A half-moon hangs sideways in the night sky. There are no clouds to block the beauty and no strange person hanging around my garden. I think of the dead woman. A shiver runs down my spine sending me back into the safety of my house. What could have happened? Drugs? Domestic? They say most people know their killer. I wonder, did she? Was it her husband?

Chapter Thirteen

There’s no husband, according to this morning’s news, the dead woman was single. Holding the steering wheel, I shuffle through the heavy traffic that comes with travelling into work at the same time as half the city, not to mention the school drop-offs. I’m looking forward to getting into work. Hopefully it’ll be so busy I won’t find the time to worry.

Tom was up, showered, infused with coffee before I even got out of the bed. I asked him if he would drop the boys to the crèche, give me a few extra minutes to sort out the washing. He said he would but not with his usual gusto, his hugs, his ‘anything for my lovely wife’ attitude. I’m worried. Worried for the two of us.

The drive into the city is the only time of the day I’m on my own. The radio presenter has moved on from the murder and is now talking to someone who wants to cycle in every country in the world for some charity, something to do with saving the earth… all I can think about is saving my marriage.

In my head I go through my to-do list for today. Not too bad. A trip to the bank to top up Tom’s account for the monthly transfer to his debt buddy. Penny’s for Amber’s fake tan and while I’m there, some new clothes for Cian and Aaron. They’re growing up so fast. Some days I drop them to the crèche and when I pick them up that evening, they look older. Like they’ve sprouted in the space of ten hours.

Ouch – the guilt. It hits me right in the stomach. Ten hours. It’s a long time to be away from the boys and certainly wasn’t my plan. But what can I do? Life has to go on. I have to adapt to the new script, the one I was handed. It’s not like I got to write much of it.