Do they know about my encounter with the sand-haired policeman? Has he told them? That must be why I’m here; he must have seen me do a U-turn on Elmhirst Road, recognized my car . . .

“If you had nothing to do with Blundy’s death—” Waterhouse begins.

“I didn’t!”

“Then why are you so upset? Why are you refusing a lawyer?”

“Because . . . no one can know I’m here. Not a lawyer, not my husband, not my children—nobody! It’s bad enough that I know I’m here!” I don’t want this to be real. A lawyer would mean it was serious, and it’s not. It’s a misunderstanding. Soon they’ll be telling me I can go. Before I have to set off to pick up Sophie and Ethan from school, definitely. Long before.

“My husband can’t know about this,” I say. “Can you give me a guarantee that he won’t find out?” The idea of Adam getting involved makes me shake again. This can’t be allowed to spill over and touch him and the kids. How can I explain that I’m not really a whole person, however much I might resemble one? I’m split down the middle: two Nickis, two lives that must never meet. The Nicki that’s married to Adam would never get herself noticed by the police.

“What are you so worried about?” Waterhouse asks. “If you’re innocent and you know nothing about Damon Blundy’s murder, then we’ve brought you in for no good reason. We’re the ones who’ve messed up, not you. Wouldn’t it be an interesting story to tell your husband over dinner—how you got dragged into a murder investigation through no fault of your own?”

“No!” Bile rises in my throat. I press my hand over my mouth.

“We’ll do our very best to respect your privacy, Nicki,” says Sergeant Sam. “If you tell us the unedited truth, that will make it easier—for us and for you.” He looks puzzled, as if he doesn’t understand why I’m so distraught. Does that mean the Elmhirst Road policeman hasn’t told him about the first time he met me? If Sam and Waterhouse knew, they would understand my fear, my desperation to get the hell out of here. Would they confront me, or test my commitment to honesty by waiting to see if I volunteered my sordid little secret?

It doesn’t feel little anymore. It feels as if it’s taking over the safe, respectable part of my life. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I remember being certain it never would.

Stupid. Recklessly, inexcusably stupid.