How I Lost You Read Online Free PDF

hazy images from a trial I attended in body only, and then I see him. A doctor who looked too young to be an expert on anything but according to the newspaper article was older than me. I remember struggling to focus as he took the stand, knowing this would be important. I didn’t know if it was the stress, the lack of food and sleep, or the antidepressants the doctors at the hospital had prescribed me, but focusing on anything was a struggle after Dylan was gone. Grief, my father said; he’d been the same when Mum had died. I’d grieved the loss of my mother too, of course, but this was different, this was an all-consuming black hole, hovering just out of my line of vision but still I knew it was there, waiting for me to step too close and slip in. It took all of my energy not to just step in voluntarily.
    The doctor was sworn in and the prosecutor stepped up to the box, a horrid little man who reminded me so much of the great and powerful Wizard of Oz that I had to try not to giggle and prove what they probably all thought anyway – that I was crazy. I tried to concentrate on what the doctor – Matthew Riley, I know now – was saying.
    ‘. . . was unresponsive. I checked for a pulse, heartbeat, signs of breathing. I declared him dead at 16.06 but the post-mortem found the time of death to be approximately two hours previous.’
    ‘And Susan Webster was . . .?’
    He’d been looking at the jury throughout his initial testimony but at this question I saw him look at me and he cleared his throat uncomfortably.
    ‘The emergency team had taken Mrs Webster through to the theatre room. From our encounter in the car park I had believed her to be deceased, however it was discovered fairly quickly that she was unconscious.’
    The prosecution paused for a second, allowing time for this information to sink in, although, I thought, it was hardly news to the jury.
    ‘What were your first impressions of how Dylan Webster had died?’
    Dr Riley looked back at the jury once more and resumed his professional stance.
    ‘It appeared that Dylan had been a victim of SIDS.’ He glanced at the prosecutor, who nodded at him to continue. ‘That’s Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, otherwise known as cot death.’
    My vision blurred. I had no clear memory of that day. Dylan was alive and then they told me he was dead. All I knew was that he was gone and I hated this man. I hated that he was talking about me and my son and saying the word ‘death’.
    ‘Could you tell us why you presumed this to be the case?’
    ‘Well, unfortunately SIDS remains one of the biggest causes of death in children under one year of age and so it’s natural to consider it a possibility when a baby has died in his crib with no outward signs of abuse or cause of death.’
    ‘And what did the post-mortem evidence suggest?’
    ‘During the post-mortem I found fibres from Mr and Mrs Webster’s sofa cushion inside Dylan’s mouth. There was acute emphysema and oedema of the lungs.’
    You didn’t have to be a medical expert to know what Dr Riley’s testimony was building up to.
    ‘And when you added up all this evidence, what did you determine to be the cause of death?’ the prosecution asked with what I was certain was a perverse glee. Dr Riley didn’t even look at me as he gave his damning evidence.
    ‘It was my professional opinion that Dylan Webster died from homicidal smothering.’
    ‘And in plain and simple English?’
    ‘Dylan Webster was smothered to death with a cushion.’
    Did they ever find Dr Riley? Does his disappearance relate to the picture at all? Sighing, I rub my hands across my face and sit back on my heels. That’s when I hear the noise.
    There’s no denying that I heard it. It is a loud crashing sound from the back garden, like someone knocking into the outside bins. Jumping to my feet, I quickly scan the front room for something I can use to defend myself. The poker. Clichéd, I know, but probably for good reason, and it’s