23
There’s paper everywhere. This was meant to help me organise my thoughts and try to work out what had gone on, but it’s just making things worse. It’s clutter, and I can’t deal with clutter.
Jess is furiously scribbling away on another piece of paper, which she then puts on the table, moving two other pieces slightly further away from each other to make room for the new one.
I’ve been trying to tell her everything I can – everything I want to, at least. It feels utterly bizarre giving my life story and intimate details to someone I barely know – and someone who less than an hour ago accused me of murdering my wife and wanting to kill her. But if I’m not able to get my head around what’s happened, I need to give the facts to someone who could.
As far as I’m concerned, Jess has now be
