Toby strangled my sister! I realise my hands are around my own throat and I can barely swallow. I let go and crawl forward on the bed onto my hands and knees, still gasping in shock and disbelief. It was Toby! Not me. I’m not a murderer. It was my husband. He slept with her and then he strangled her. And then I… I married this man. Raised two children with him.

‘No, no, no, no, no.’ I bury my face in the bedclothes and let out a moan. Am I dreaming? Am I in the throes of a nightmare? This surely can’t be real. But it is. I remember it as clearly as if I were there. Everything has been a lie. My wedding day… my husband… my marriage… my sister. All a big fat lie.

Toby. My husband. The man I thought was the love of my life. Who has been by my side through thick and thin. In sickness and in health. He lied to me. Betrayed me. I squeeze my eyes shut. Try to gulp down some air and shut it all out. But this is too huge to ignore. Too devastating. I can hardly take it all in. The memories replay themselves – my sister’s sneering expression and drunken slurs. Toby’s panicked face and then his cold, cruel grip on Dina’s neck. All those lies.

And he’s still lying. Yesterday he told me that I was a killer. Blamed me for my sister’s death and made out that he’d been standing by me all these years, that he’d never been even remotely interested in my sister like that. He made out that it was all her fault. Said he’d been protecting me from the truth, like he was being noble, forgiving me for what I’d done.

I push myself up into a kneeling position on the bed. He must have thanked his lucky stars when he discovered I’d lost my memory. How could he go on to make me believe such a despicable thing about myself? How could he? How dare he! Pretending that he was prepared to stand by my side through all of this. That he’s been such a good and faithful husband. Looking out for me. When all along he’s just been covering his own arse. He had an affair and then he killed her! Is this the man I married?

How can my husband be so far removed from the perfect man I thought he was? I clench my fists, suddenly fuelled with rage. But almost as soon as the anger hits, it ebbs away. My brain is becoming foggy. I need to open the curtains, to open the window and breathe in fresh air. Clear my head. Call the police and tell them what happened. They need to know that my sister was murdered. That my husband is a cold-blooded killer.