“ ‘I tried to forgive them.’ That’s all she says, boss, ‘I tried to forgive them’. Over and over. We’ve been interviewing her for two hours now and that’s all we’ve got.”

“What about the house, anything  there?”

“Forensics are tearing the place apart but so far, apart from the two bodies, they’ve found nothing. What next?”

“Put the suspect in the cells, see if that’ll help to loosen her tongue. Then get over to that house. We need something to tie her to that place.”


He seemed so young to be a detective, about the same age my Simon would have been. I wanted to help him, I really did but the words just wouldn’t come. How do you begin to tell a complete stranger why you’ve done something like this. Where would I start? Way back when I was a child, when the night-time visits started? Or later, when they did what they did to my baby? Maybe I could start with the time they … but no, none of it matters any more. What’s done is done, my story can’t change that.

When he showed me the photos that made me even more determined to keep quiet. I could tell by the look in his eyes he was horrified. As far as other people were concerned, whatever story I told could never  justify what I’d done. No words of mine are going to stop me from being branded as the cold-hearted bitch who sadistically butchered dear old George and Martha Jenkins.

It was a mistake. I hadn’t planned to do it. I’d gone there for some sort of closure. It’s hard to believe but I wanted to forgive them, I really did. I needed to move on.

Seeing them both for the first time in all these years unnerved me. Their bodies were frailer but the way they looked at me, the way they spoke, I could tell nothing had changed. Within minutes of being back inside that house I felt as if I’d never been away. The nightmare thoughts came flooding back. When I explained my reason for visiting, when I tried to tell them I’d forgiven them, they laughed at me. Told me they didn’t need my forgiveness.

Strangely, seeing those photos, close-ups of the wounds and all that blood had made me so angry. They looked at peace and that’s not what I wanted. Death was too good for them, meant their suffering was over, not like mine. I can hear them now, screaming for mercy, begging me to stop. They’d even cried out how sorry they were for all the things they’d done to me. But it was too late for that, far too late. I’d wanted to forgive them but I just couldn’t.

They’ll be back for me soon. I’m sure that young detective will find plenty of evidence at the house  to convict me. They will want to interview me again,  it’s their job but my words will stay the same, ‘I tried to forgive them’, though I doubt anyone really cares.



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