There's a sharp tap coming from the door. I don't know who would be making house calls at this time of night. Under normal circumstances, I would be in bed now, but these aren't exactly normal circumstances. It's hardly normal when your best friend died yesterday. It's hardly normal when it wasn't an accident. It's hardly normal when she did it voluntarily. Meaning, dear reader, she committed suicide.

Mum and Dad are asleep in bed so I saunter to the front door. As I pull it, it creaks open to reveal a man in dark clothes and a hood on his head. No, wait, it's a hat. A round hat that's flat but it has something round and flat sticking out at the top. I need to see this person better. I pull the cord for the outside light. Now I see him. He's a policeman in a black uniform and, although the rain is pounding on top of him, he makes no effort to shelter himself. Twisting above his upper lip is a grey moustache so, although I can't see under his hat, his hair is probably grey too. His eyebrows are shaped as if he's angry. They make him look almost sinister. But he's a policeman. He wouldn't harm me. Tucked under his right arm is a small cardboard box.

"P.C Walsh," says the policeman holding up his I.D badge.

"Umm Sarah," I stutter. I've always had this fear of policemen, even though they're meant to be around to help people.

"I believe you knew the late…" P.C Walsh begins, before checking a name tag on the box – laminated so it doesn't get wet. I wonder how he copes with all of this rain thrashing on top of his head. "Trudy Goldman." He corrects himself.

"Yes. Why?"

"May I come in?" he shivers now.

"Of course," I reply and step back so he can come in. Wiping his feet on the mat, he grunts and goes through the hallway and seems to know exactly where the dining room is, because that's where he goes to sit. The package is dumped on the table.

"We found the contents of this box in Miss Goldman's bedroom earlier today. On it was clear instructions to take this to you. The note also mentioned some other things for you," he explains. As brown and sickening as a rotten tree stump, the box is shoved in front of my face. Taking the hint, I rip it open in anxiety.

Inside the mystery delivery are three books. On the top one are the words: TRUDY'S DIARY - STRICTLY PRIVATE. Underneath that title is a slither of a sticky note reading: DELIVER TO SARAH STUARTS. Then it shows my address and names the other two books in the box. The other two books seem like a notebook and a…. I'm not sure what the other one is. I move the diary and notebook out of the way and pick up the third one. It's not a book at all. It's a video tape. On the label, it says: THE TRUDY AND SARAH SHOW - FINAL EPISODE. I know what this is. On my karaoke machine, Trudy and I used to film a pretend show called the Trudy and Sarah show. It was fun. Good fun. I thought I'd never see this video again after I gave it to Trudy.

"Thanks," I mutter.

"I'll be off then," murmurs P.C Walsh and he leaves the room. After a few minutes, I can hear the front door slam.