Page 71 of You Lied First

I wake just as determined to go to the police as I was the night before.

I’ve never liked being in a state of indecision.

Knowing what to do is always better than not knowing, even if the way forward won’t be easy.

But I’ll explain. Tell them it was an accident.

That I panicked and covered it up. Yes, ultimately, I’ll probably go to jail, but Michael is a good dad, and, after the initial shock, my sweet Liv will be able to get on with her life without looking over her shoulder.

Just living in fear of the police for these miserable weeks has worn me down.

I can imagine the relief the others will feel if they’re no longer suspects.

I get up slowly and take time to savour my last coffee in my own home.

I make myself a breakfast of Greek yoghurt and fresh fruit – things I doubt I’ll get in prison – and tidy up the house so it looks presentable for whoever comes in next.

Who will that be? Liv? Michael? I flick though the folder I’ve made with all the house and banking information for Liv, checking I’ve included everything because I know I’ll fret in jail that I’ve missed out something significant, like the code to the safe or the PIN for my bank cards.

Then I place it on the kitchen table where it’ll be easy for Liv to find.

I clear the fridge of perishables and empty the bins, the task reminding me too horribly of when we’d fled the Muscat villa.

I dress in comfortable clothes, expecting that I’ll be in them for quite some time, then I compose a WhatsApp message to send to Margot. She’ll be so relieved to be able to put this behind them and finally move on.

Morning. Shock news: I’m going to the police station to hand myself in. Don’t worry. All will be well

The last bit is meant to convey the fact that I’m not going to dump them in it.

God, it’s difficult talking in riddles. I send the message, shove my phone in my bag and leave the house.

It’s about a twenty-minute walk to the police station and I value every moment of it, breathing in the fresh air, looking at the trees that line the roads, still in their bleak, twiggy winter state but beautiful all the same.

I pay attention to the clack of my boots striking the pavement, the feel of my heart rate rising with the exercise, and the warmth that tingles through my body to my fingers.

Is this the last time I’ll ever walk along a street in the winter in Britain?

What will it be like in a jail in Oman? It’s not like inmates post pics on social media: I have nothing to go on.

‘You’re doing it for Liv,’ I say out loud because I can feel myself faltering.

My steps slow as I approach the police station.

I stare at the windows of the building as I wait at the lights to cross the busy road.

How will the people inside that building take my confession?

Will they know what I’m talking about? Will they believe me, or think I’m delusional – looking for my five minutes of fame?

What’ll happen next? Will I be extradited to Oman immediately?

Or not at all? Will there be a trial? Here or in Muscat?

I have no idea. The traffic stops, the crossing beeps, and I walk the final few metres towards my fate … and straight into Margot.