A Body in My House

Owen Davison should not need to prove that he knows his own home. Its rooms belong to the life he remembers, a private world whose most basic facts have never required an explanation. Then a woman's body is found there, and familiarity offers no protection. The place Owen knows best becomes the place where his account of reality is least convincing.

Her name is Leonie Rogers. To Owen, she is a stranger. To the evidence, she appears to have occupied a place in his life. That contradiction turns every question about her presence into a question about him. Insisting that he does not know her cannot make the evidence disappear, but accepting the story it seems to tell would mean accepting a life he does not recognise.

As the questions close in, Owen is forced to examine the gap between what he remembers and what can apparently be established. The discovery of a body ought to begin with finding out who the dead woman was. Instead, Leonie's identity threatens to unsettle his own. How can someone unknown to him belong in his house more convincingly than he does in the account being assembled around it?

There is no reassuring distance between Owen and the mystery. Whatever happened to Leonie happened inside the boundaries of his ordinary life, and every explanation must account for that intimacy. His certainty is personal. The evidence is something other people can see. The more firmly he holds to his version, the more urgently he needs to understand why it stands alone.

A Body in My House is a domestic thriller about the terror of finding your own life used as evidence against you—and discovering that knowing what is true may be very different from being able to prove it.