Imagine this: You see a loved one murdered. In the weeks after, you try to piece your life back together, knowing the person responsible still hasn't been caught.
Then, he writes you a letter...
What a strange note to be writing. I’ve restarted it ten times over to try to find a good way of beginning but I don’t think I’d find one so I may as well be direct and get it all over with. I’m the person who killed your mother. There are some people sick enough to make hoaxes out of these things.
So, so you can be certain, I came in through a window at the back of the house and your mother was in the bedroom. I thought I could hear her sorting through clothes. Then I saw her appear in the crack of the doorway. Only for a second. It wasn’t until the police let slip there’d been a witness that I thought it must have been you sorting through clothes that night. It must have been you she whispered to. I’d thought it was panic. That she was talking to herself. Not that that makes much difference I don’t suppose.
But look, Sarah, I wanted to write to you to apologise. You haven’t told the police what I look like which I suppose means you mustn’t know. That’s good for us both. It means we can hopefully move on from this. But what happened that night, what I did. I never would have done that if I’d known you were there – if I’d known you were watching. It’s a terrible thing to have seen and I’m sorry you had to see it at all. I don’t know whether the apology means much.
It won’t serve anyone well if you tell the police about the letter, Sarah. They can’t find me in a room full of evidence so they won’t find me from a slip of paper. But take the apology, would you, and know that I really do mean it.
Look after yourself, Sarah, and let this go.
Sincerely, yours –