She closed the door behind herself, locked up, dropped her coat on the sofa and sat down, taking off her painful heels.
The funeral had been awkward, seeing his family mourn their loss, his friends. And then there was her; the girl he’d been with last before he died and the girl who couldn’t really give any believable answers to how he died.
Up until today she’d been the girl with the freckles or the girl who’d been engaged to a 50-year-old when she was 17.
For the first time in her life she was the girl who’d been caught up in a murder, responsible for two deaths.
It was a week ago now that she’d lost a friend and a stranger. The police had found her – after maybe an hour of waiting in the dark – sitting in the corner of the room she hadn’t dared to leave. They had asked her if she was hurt. She wasn’t. Later at the police station she’d told them what had happened and they told her that the man who had killed her friend had seemingly committed suicide.
She was under investigation. Since Andrew, her friend had been beaten to death with bare hands and there were bruises on the fists of the man who had committed suicide – whatever his name was, it was unlikely she’d be blamed for the crime.
She closed her eyes. She was hungry. There was no food in the house, really. Slowly she stood up from the sofa and pulled herself into the kitchen. She shivered as her feet crossed the cold kitchen tiles and she opened the fridge.
A rotting tomato, a jar of pickled onions and a tiny piece of cheese stared back at her. They looked sad and lonely. At the back of fridge, behind the jar of pickles, stood a box with left-over’s. She opened it. It was lasagna from last week. It smelt fine. It would do. She needed to go shopping.