The story so far:
83: How long has it been now? The mirror won’t show myself to me. I can’t track the progress of my destruction. I haven’t washed, I barely eat.
84: Another knock on the door, intruding on my grief. I make my way to the hall, unopened letters piled at my feet.
85: The police detective seems unsurprised by my appearance, when I open the door to him. I wonder, distantly, if I smell.
86: “Ms Jones? DI Woods. We have some more questions for you.” “All right,” I answer slowly, as though speaking in a foreign language.
87: They take me back to the windowless room and their questions are less gentle now. I think only of the mirror, of returning to my memories.
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