“Morning,” the man says. He flips open a badge just long enough. “Detective Harris.”
The woman beside him does the same. “Detective Collins.”
I nod once.
“We’d like to come in and ask you some questions,” Harris says.
I step back, and they walk in without hesitation.
“Had a report come through,” he goes on, like it’s routine. “Just need to make sure everything’s all right here.”
Collins is already looking past me, taking in the house. “We’ll need a quick word with you and Charlotte. Separately, if that’s okay.”
I don’t know what any of that means. Don’t know what I’m supposed to push back on, or whether pushing back makes it worse.
So I let it happen.
They split us without discussion. Charlotte goes with the female officer, and the male officer follows me to the sitting room.
He sits, notebook open, pen ready.
“What is your relationship with Charlotte?”
“She’s my sister.”
He writes it down.
“How long were you on the island?”
“Fourteen years.”
“That means you were there from the time you were what age?”
“Twelve.”
“And Charlotte?”
“Eleven.”
“And during that time—what was daily life like?”
“Work. Food. Shelter. Keeping things going so we could survive.”
He nods, writing again.
“You’re aware of the images of you and your sister circulating online?”
“I’ve heard.”
“Can you explain them?”
“I don’t know how to explain something that isn’t real.”
He nods, his pen continuing to move.
“Do you have a romantic or sexual relationship with Charlotte?”
“No. Of course not.”
