Tag: I Know What You Did

“Mum, I saw Dad kill Kevin Jacobs.”

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. The shepherd’s pie falls back onto the plate with a wet slap.

Hannah sits across from me, her voice flat. No tremor. No tears. Just that terrible certainty teenagers wield like weapons.

The silence stretches between us. The old carriage clock on the mantel ticks loud enough to hammer nails. Outside, a car door slams. Mrs Dawson calling her cat in. Normal sounds from a normal Tuesday evening.

But nothing about this is normal.

Matt’s knuckles have gone white around his wine glass. For a heartbeat, he looks like a stranger sitting at my kitchen table. Then he blinks and becomes my husband again.

“Honestly, Hannah.” He forces a laugh. “Drama queen as always.”

He lifts the glass to his lips.

Hannah leans forward, elbows on the scratched pine table. Her eyes lock on mine, not Matt’s.

“I saw him, Mum. On Serpentine Walk.”

Her tone carries no trace of teenage exaggeration. No breathless excitement at being the centre of attention. Just facts, delivered like a weather report.

Goosebumps prickle my arms. “You must’ve mistak—”

“I know what I saw.”

The words slice through my stumbling denial. Hannah’s gaze doesn’t waver. She has Matt’s stubborn chin, my green eyes. Right now, she looks older than fifteen.

From Agnew Street comes the distant hum of evening traffic, commuters heading home to their own families, their own problems. The sound feels wrong somehow, too ordinary for this moment.

Matt pushes back his chair. The legs scrape against the kitchen tiles.

“She’s making things up, Vicky.” He stands, smoothing down his shirt. “Attention-seeking nonsense.”

But sweat beads along his hairline despite the December chill seeping through our single-glazed windows.

Hannah stays seated. Her hands clench into fists on the table.

“Kevin Jacobs is dead, isn’t he?” she asks.

I want to laugh it away, to tell her she’s watched too many crime dramas, that Kevin is probably at home right now watching the news or polishing those awful model ships he collects.

But Kevin Jacobs. The man who organised the street’s Christmas lights competition. Who always waved when he trimmed his hedge. Who knew exactly which wine to bring to dinner parties and never stayed past ten o’clock.

Dead?

My mind scrambles for logic. When did I last see him? Yesterday morning, maybe. Or was it Sunday? The days blur together lately—freelance deadlines, Hannah’s school drama, Oliver’s nativity, Matt’s long hours at the office.

“This is ridiculous.” Matt moves towards the doorway. “I won’t sit here and listen to this rubbish.”

Hannah doesn’t flinch. She watches him go, then turns back to me.

“He came home late last night. After eleven. His shirt was dirty.”

Matt’s footsteps pound up the stairs. A door slams. The house shudders.

Hannah and I sit in the sudden quiet. The shepherd’s pie congeals on our plates. The smell of mince and onions that felt comforting twenty minutes ago now turns my stomach.

“Hannah—”

“He threw his shirt in the washing machine straight away.” Her voice stays level, matter-of-fact. “He never does the washing.”

She’s right. Matt considers the washing machine a mysterious feminine appliance, like my hair straighteners or the air fryer his sister bought us last Christmas.

“There could be any number of reasons—”

“Ask him where he was.”

The challenge sits between us. Hannah’s eyes burn into mine, waiting.

From upstairs comes the sound of Matt pacing. Back and forth across our bedroom floor.

I think of his recent mood swings. The whispered phone calls that stop when I enter the room. The way he checks his mobile constantly, jaw tight with tension.

The distance that’s grown between us, subtle as frost forming on windows.

“There was no trace of a joke in her eyes. Only certainty.”

Hannah pushes her plate away, food untouched.

“Ask him, Mum.”

But I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.

Serpentine Walk runs behind our terrace, dark and narrow between the houses and the train station car park. I’ve walked it hundreds of times, cutting through to the Tesco Express.

Now it feels different. Dangerous.

Hannah stands, scraping her chair back.

“I’m going to my room.”

She pauses at the kitchen door, hand on the frame. For a moment, she looks like the little girl who used to crawl into our bed during thunderstorms, seeking comfort in the space between Matt and me.

“I know what I saw, Mum.”