Karen’s thoughts were obviously for me and how this was all going to affect me, a vulnerable young woman with no family. She tried at once to shield me from the sight of my aunt, took me round to her house, and hugged me to her in the most protective fashion. She sat me down and made me a cup of strong, sweet tea for the shock, then phoned the police. In the immediate aftermath, I think I felt every bit as guilty for deceiving her as I did for my actual transgression.

There was apparently no evidence of a break-in or foul play, and the inquest into the old woman’s demise concluded accidental death. Which it was, in a way. Although I cannot deny that, at that precise defining moment, I hated her with every fibre of my being, wanted to wipe her from the face of the earth. Afterwards, with the trauma of the inquest over, I was relieved initially to be able to put it all behind me, move on with my life and forget the whole sorry incident.

But of course, you can never truly bury something like that. Every night when I close my eyes, I see Auntie Jane’s face, feel the reproach and anger that she must have felt towards me; must still feel, even from beyond the grave. I’m tortured by the thought that one day there will be a knock at my door, that all these years I have been under observation, that some covert investigation has brought new evidence to light and my crime has been discovered. However irrational, I live in dread that the time will eventually come for me to be made accountable for my actions.

After what I had done, I could never judge Jack for his moment of weakness. One drunken, uncharacteristic act on his part; something he was unlikely ever to repeat. That is how I see it. Nothing compared with my own appalling secret. I sometimes wonder how he would react if he knew he were married to a killer. For that is what I am; I can’t hide from the fact. Whether he would ever want anything to do with me again. He might even take our daughter away, refuse to let me see her. It’s possible that he could actually be fearful of me, of what else I might do, since I’d been capable of committing, and then concealing, such a shocking act. Of course, I would never harm him or Elodie. My actions were the result of a split second of madness. I’m sure Jack would never do anything to enrage me in the way that my aunt did, to push my buttons and tip me over the edge, make me act in such an uncharacteristic fashion. Surely nothing could make me act in such a way ever again.