I look blankly at him for a moment before I get it. Mr. Rees is Max’s dad in my head, but they mean Max, don’t they?

“He’s very concerned about you. He told us you haven’t been sleeping. That you wrenched the steering wheel out of his hand and caused the crash.”

What?

“No,” I say, shaking my head, cheeks burning. “There was a cat. It was…instinct to grab the wheel. I grabbed the wheel to avoid a cat.”

“Mr. Rees claims he didn’t see anything in the road.”

That’s not what Max said in the hospital. He was the one who told me to mention the bloody cat.

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“Just trying to establish your state of mind, that’s all. But you’re right—it has nothing to do with the discovery of Greg Lewis’s body, does it?”

I feel winded. “It’s definitely him, then?”

He doesn’t answer. He opens a folder and flicks through some pages.

“After your sister died, you kept insisting it couldn’t have been an accident. Why was that, Tess?”

“I don’t know. I was confused, grieving…I had a head injury, for God’s sake. What has this got to do with Greg?”

“He was reported missing around the same time. I’m sure you understand we’re exploring any and all connections at the moment.”

“He could have come back. He doesn’t have to have died then, does he?”

“Did you see him? The day of the wedding? Did you see something that night?”

I shake my head. My vision doubles, then clears. “No. I don’t remember. I told you that.”

“You still don’t remember? After ten years?”

“It’s a condition. It’s in your bloody reports.”

Detective Levinson flicks through a few more pages. “Ah yes—dissociative memory disorder. At the time, the doctor wasn’t sure whether it was temporary, or even whether you really had this at all. The amount of alcohol in your system…”

“I don’t fucking remember.” I’m nearly shouting, half out of my chair.

Detective Levinson leans back in his chair. There’s a faint smile on his face. “Okay, forget that for now. Let’s talk about Greg Lewis.”

I rub my eyes. They’re gritty, my eyelids heavy. My head is pounding and I just want to lay my head on the table and sleep.

“I barely knew him.” I look down at the table as I speak, echoes of past conversations with Greg running through my mind.

“Really? Living so close—and with his ex-partner becoming your stepmother?”

“Well, the circumstances hardly invited neighborly confidences, did they? I was a kid.”

“Sixteen when he went missing.”

“And he was forty.”

“It’s been suggested to us that Greg Lewis very much liked befriending teenage girls.”