We lock eyes and my heart stutters in my chest. He looks good in his designer suit, his shades over his eyes. Whereas I can only imagine how rough I look in my black leggings and over-sized jumper. I didn’t even brush my hair, just bundled it into a messy bun on the top of my head.
For a split second, something flickers across his face—relief, maybe, but he shuts it down quickly, so I look away.
A police officer approaches. “Ms. Lee, if you’ll follow me.”
I stand, my legs feeling heavy, and as I pass Ray, I can feel his gaze on me. I don’t look at him again, not giving him the satisfaction.
The officer leads me into a small room and gestures to a chair. “Take a seat.” She offers a polite smile, settling opposite me. “Before we take a full statement, there are a few preliminary questions I need to ask.”
She writes my name and details at the top of a form, her pen scratching softly against the paper.
“I’m not really sure what you want me to say,” I begin, my voice quieter than I expect. “Ray and I were out that evening, so we weren’t home. Before I left, Anika seemed fine. I mean, she’s been down lately because of her ex, but nothing unusual.She was actually really sweet, telling me I looked nice. I wasn’t concerned.”
The officer nods, listening.
“Before we proceed any further,” she says, “I need to ask, would you like legal representation?”
I frown. “No. Why would I need that?”
“Just to confirm,” she says evenly, “you’re happy to continue without a solicitor present?”
“Yes.”
She presses a button on the recorder. A soft click fills the room.
“Interview with Ms. Wynter Lee. The time is ten-forty-five,” she states for the tape before looking back at me and I swallow down the sudden panic I’m feeling. This was supposed to be an informal chat. Me just explaining the night.
“Did you have access to the medicine trolley in Anika’s bedroom?”
“Yes,” I reply. “We kept a key. I only ever administered her prescribed pain relief.”
“We’ve reviewed the medical records,” she says, sliding a form towards me. “You administered medication earlier that day.”
I glance down at my signature. “Yes,” I say, nodding.
“Can you confirm that verbally for the recording, please?”
I glance nervously at the machine. “Yes, that’s my handwriting.”
“And this is your signature?”
“Yes.”
She reaches for another document, this one sealed inside a clear evidence bag, and places it in front of me.
“What about this one?”
I lean closer. It looks like mine.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “It looks like my handwriting.”
She taps a time noted on the form. “Did you administer morphine at three a.m.?”
My stomach drops. “No,” I say immediately. “I was asleep.”
“But you’ve just confirmed this appears to be your handwriting.”
“It does, but I didn’t give her any morphine after the carer arrived,” I explain, trying to keep my voice steady. “She took over.”