Welcome to Case Closed.

You're listening to Sometimes I Lie by Alice Feeney, narrated by Stephanie Racine.

Let's pick up where we left off last time.

Then, Christmas Eve Eve 2016.

I lie in the bath, wishing that the water was hot enough to burn my body, but I don't want to hurt the child trying to grow inside me.

I imagine how this scene might look in a few weeks' time, a skin-coloured hill protruding

from the bathwater, a new land waiting to be claimed. I rest my right hand on my stomach,

gently, as though it might hurt me back, as though it isn't a part of me. I don't feel anything.

Maybe it is just too soon.

When the water is colder than I can bear, I step out and dry myself. The steam has already run away and I'm shocked when I see my own reflection in the bathroom mirror. Red fingerprints are clearly visible around my white neck.

The bruises I have on the inside are less recent, but just as easy to see if you know how to look.

I open the bathroom door and hear that Paul is downstairs. Then I smell the fire and it almost makes me gag. I tread carefully over a

carpet of lies, trying not to disturb them. Once I'm in the bedroom, I pull on a polo-neck

jumper and some comfy jogging bottoms before rushing downstairs to the front room. There you are, says Paul.

Drink?

Is it safe?

The drink?

The fire.

Doesn't it need to be swept before we use it?

It's fine.

I thought it would be cosy, given its Christmas Eve.

The room is lit by the Christmas tree in the flames.

...