The whoop and wail of sirens had become the city’s soundtrack, a raucous orchestra of emergency services, their resources stretched to breaking point and getting nowhere fast. Well off the clock and still only halfway to Darnton, Jem hadn’t gone anywhere for fifteen minutes, and brake lights stretched ahead as far as she could see. The traffic jam was giving her far too much time to agonise over what she might say to Rosie, should they actually get to meet up that night, although that was looking ever more unlikely. When her phone rang, she answered it without thinking, sending the call through to hands-free and smiling at the name on the display.

“I thought it might be you,” she said. “Are you stuck too? I haven’t moved for ages.”

“Is that Jem?” The girl sounded young and uncertain, and she immediately started to cry. “I tried to call nine-nine-nine, but there was a queue, and your name is top of her list.”

“What the—?” Jem rechecked the screen, but she hadn’t been mistaken. “What are you doing with Rosie’s phone? Where is she? Is she okay?”

“No.”

“Jesus,” Jem whispered. “What happened?”

“She fell through the floor. I made her fall.” The girl sniffled and then blew her nose on something. “I came back to help her, but she wasn’t really awake.”

“Fucking hell.” Jem checked the distance between the RRV and the surrounding cars. “Where are you?”

“The old mill off Bennett Street. Can you help her?”

“Yes, I’m a paramedic.” Jem whacked her blues on and hit the sirens, shifting into the central gap that formed as the cars parted for her. “How badly is she hurt?”

“I don’t know. She’s in the water.”

On some level, Jem was processing the information, even as she accelerated and hit her priority button, yelled at Ryan for backup, and then yelled at the fuckwit in front of her who pulled into the middle instead of pulling right.

“Okay,” she said, fighting to breathe through the stress compressing her chest. “Okay. Are you with her?”

“No. There’s no signal down there.”

“Can you take me to her?”

“Yes, yes I can,” the girl said. “I’ll meet you by the gap in the fence on Bennett.”

“Ten minutes.” Jem swerved around a van. “It’ll be all right. She’ll be all right. What’s your name?”

“Tahlia,” the girl said, and disconnected the call.

* * *

The RRV fishtailed as Jem threw it around the corner of Bennett Street. She tried not to look at its data screen, tried not to think what might have happened to Rosie in the last seven minutes and twenty-three seconds. She didn’t need to search for the fence; she stopped behind Rosie’s car, her legs shaking so violently that she stalled the engine and sent the RRV lurching into Rosie’s bumper.

“Shit.”