When I left the house, I felt strange, like something inside me was burning up. I stopped at my favourite café, but the image of the girl in the bloody bathtub wouldn't leave me alone. Something felt out of place. Back at the crime scene, I casually mentioned a detail about the victim's position in the bathtub. The room fell silent. "We never told you that," one of the officers said. The more I investigated, the more impossible details I seemed to know. Then I found a security recording from the night of the murder. The man entering the house wore my coat. My watch. My face. Fragments of memory resurfaced. A voice. An argument. Then everything came back. I had known her. Argued with her. Killed her. I hadn't returned to the crime scene to solve the murder. I had returned to remember it.