“Hello, Mrs Mathis, my name’s PC Forrester and this is my colleague PC Shelly. May we come in?” The tall policewoman waits patiently for my response. A shorter man stands to her left, his shoulders oddly broad for his height.
“Yes,” I say, stepping back. “Of course.”
After forcing myself to smile through the rest of lunch and squeeze out some convincing congratulations to Penny and Tim, I made my excuses and got home just in time for my appointment with the police.
“I take it you viewed the video footage from the camera?” I say as I lead PC Forrester and PC Shelly through the hallway.
She nods. “We’ve had our analysts take a look. It does appear to be Claire Blackburn.”
I walk into the kitchen and hover awkwardly by the table there.
“Yes. But I don’t know what she was doing here. How does she know I live here…”
As I trail off, PC Forrester takes charge.
“It does seem to be quite an unusual situation. Do you mind if I take a seat, and you run me through things from the beginning?”
“Not at all. Please, sit down. Would you like a drink?”
“Coffee please, white no sugar. While we’re talking, do you mind if PC Shelly takes a look around your house?”
The way she says this stops me in my tracks. For the first time, it crosses my mind that I might be viewed as more than the victim of a potential break-in or a witness in a missing persons case. Now I’m wondering if I’m some sort of suspect.
As the other officer moves around the house, pulling out drawers and picking up photos, I tell PC Forrester every detail: from the original Twitter post, to finding Rachel Lacey, to the missing food and the visit to my mother. It takes almost an hour for me to tell my incredible story and PC Forrester listens and takes notes. I can’t work out if she believes me or not, but I know it’s the truth so I comfort myself with that thought.
After we’ve finished, I take our mugs over to the sink and I see PC Forrester talking to her colleague in the hallway, through the reflection of the kitchen window. I watch PC Shelly bundle some white clothing into a ziplock bag. And then I see a dark brown patch, staining the material. I frown and turn to get a better look.
“What’s that?” I ask.
PC Forrester walks forward. “We’re taking these for testing.” She grabs the bag from her colleague and shows it to me. “Do you recognise?—”
“No,” I say quietly. “I’ve never seen that before. Where did you find it?”
“Bundled in a plastic bag at the back of your wardrobe,” PC Forrester says. Then she turns to me. “Before we leave, may we trouble you for a DNA sample? It won’t take a moment.” She smiles brightly but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
I can’t refuse. Why would I? I have nothing to hide. And yet, this feels like an ambush. Some sort of accusation hangs in the air. But what is it I’m being accused of?
I let PC Forrester run the swab over the inside of my mouth, and watch her bag it up. “Well, that’s us done for the day. Thank you for all the information. There’s a lot for us to look into. Here’s my card if anything happens or if you think of anything else. We’ll be in touch soon.”
I slink away from her as the officers leave the house. And then I walk over to the kitchen counter and grip hold of the marble. There’s no strength left in my legs. I feel as though I could melt, dissolve into the ground at any moment.
What I’m trying not to think about is the bloodstain I saw on the white shirt in that ziplock bag. Where did it come from? Whose blood is it? I feel I know the answer and it’s too dreadful to contemplate. The white shirt looked exactly like the one Claire was wearing in the photograph on Twitter and that was captured on my doorbell camera. Claire has been inside my house.
I rush through to my office and rummage through the stack of notes on top of my desk, reading every strange paragraph and rhyming verse.
I am the dark half of you,
Made of shade from a midnight hue.
I lurk inside the pitch-black shadow,
Severed by your gloomy window.
You are light and twice as bright,
Living as day instead of night.
I beat my fists against the glass,
