Ipswich
10th August: The night of the murder
Caroline
I don’t know how to get her to leave. I don’t want a cup of tea, to get involved in whatever strange power play Emma is carrying out. All I want is to be able to think, to control my thoughts and work out what to do.
The sound of the kettle boiling begins to fill the room, the hot bubbling noise surrounding us, trapping me in. Ignoring Emma’s gaze, I put both hands to my face and take deep breaths, in and out like my mother used to show me before she died. What would she think of me now? If she knew what I had almost done, what my inexperience, my stupidity, my carelessness nearly led to? She’d be ashamed. Horrified. Disgusted.
Pressing my palms into my eyes, not caring what I look like, I try to think. Suddenly, I know what I have to do. I know there is only one way out.
‘Emma,’ I say, and as the flick of the kettle switch goes off and she looks down, I reach my right hand out, grab a long, silver kitchen knife from the rack next to the sink. In my hand, the black handle is firm, solid, and my grip is steady. Calm.
She turns to face me, and I take a step forward.