Five weeks.
I had a folder on my work email from the eleventh of September called household.
And I had told nobody. Not Fen, who sits four feet from me. Not my sister. Not the police, who I speak to for forty hours a week.
Because I wanted it complete. Because I have spent seven years listening to people ring in with half a thing and get told there is nothing that can be done with half a thing.
So on the seventh of October I got up, and made a packed lunch, and drove my husband to an airport, knowing — not suspecting, knowing — and I had already decided in the kitchen that I was going to follow him.
And my daughter was in the back seat, because she comes with me, because that is the school run.
The other half.
She had tried before.
On the Monday the sixth — the morning after she heard it — she said something in the car on the way to school.
