20 Saturday 4 August, 10.00pm.
I’m desperately trying to work out what’s going on here. I’m convinced that sooner or later I’m going to wake up and find out it was all a dream. It has to be. There’s no other option.
You hear these stories about people doing things in their sleep, or when they’ve blanked out. But that can’t be the case. It didn’t happen while I was asleep — I was sitting out in the garden all morning, reading my book. I remember every minute of it. Don’t I?
I’d certainly remember putting my book down, getting in my car, driving to Roger’s house and murdering him. Besides which, I remember realising when I got up on Friday morning that I couldn’t find my phone and thought I must have left it at work. That was a whole twenty-four hours before Roger died. I planned to have
