I was hungover.
That’s how it starts. Not with a stranger, or a locked door, or a house at the end of a track with no signal. It starts with me, face down on my bed at half eight in the morning, deciding that my sister could wait.
Hannah wanted me there for one reason. She was going to look round a property, on her own, with a man she’d never met.
You’re the witness, she said.
So I sat in the car.
Three years on, the police have given me back a box of her belongings and stopped returning my calls. They followed every line of enquiry. They found nothing.
I have one thing they don’t.
I know what I saw that morning.
I’m just starting to understand that I got it wrong.
The police were investigating Hannah’s murder.I’m investigating Hannah.
