I deflected that question last time, talked about my need to make sense of it all, my dots of detail revealing a pointillist painting. I ducked the real part of the question - why to you? Is this a make-believe game of the almost insane? Sheets and blankets make a tent, a pirate ship or a castle. You are the fearless knight, Leo is the swashbuckling prince and I am the princess and narrator - telling the story, as I want it. I was always the storyteller, wasn’t I?Do I think you can hear me? Absolutely yes / Definitely not. Take your pick; I do hourly.Put simply, I need to talk to you. Mum told me I didn’t say very much till you were born, then I had a sister to talk to and I didn’t stop. I don’t want to stop now. If I did, I’d lose a part of me. It’s a part of me I’d miss. I know you can’t criticise or comment on my letter to you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know your criticisms or guess at your comments just as you used to know and guess at mine. It’s a one-way conversation, but one that I could only have with you.And it’s to tell you why you were murdered.
