‘The newspapers said he was tried and convicted, but they reckon it was an old-fashioned lynchin that day. All those people’d be dead and buried now but.’ Uncle must’ve hit his limit because he suddenly straightens and that stern expression I am so familiar with is aimed fair at me. ‘Now you know there’s nothing there, leave it at that.’

He pushes up from his chair and goes back to the doorway, having a quick look out to see where Mum is. He pauses for one second to look back at me. ‘And don’t tell your mother I told you that neither.’

Hurrying out, he vanishes just as Mum comes through the other door, the one that leads to what used to be a verandah and was built in at some point to create another room. She sits on the end of my bed and glares at me. I resist the urge to tuck my knees into my chest and wait her out. She’s been swinging violently between crying and fury all afternoon.

‘Do you know where your sister is?’ Her voice slices off every word.

‘No, I swear.’

I know I’ve stuffed up even before I see her fingers clench the doona.

‘And how am I supposed to believe that after all the lyin you been doin?’

I drop my eyes.

‘Look at me when I’m talkin to you.’

I force myself to look her dead in the eyes. ‘I swear on the Bible, Mum, I don’t know where she is.’ This is the most solemn oath you can make in my family. We’re taught that swearing on the Bible and lying means you go straight to hell. I’m not sure if I believe that so much anymore, but I know that oath is sacrosanct. ‘She told me she was goin to hang out with Troy.’

‘And how long has that been goin on?’

I want to smack myself on the forehead. Ah well, might as well get it over with. ‘Since she got with im.’

‘When was that?’

‘After school finished last year?’ My eyes drop before I can stop them and I curse myself upside and down.

‘Are you askin me or tellin me?’ Her voice is diamond hard.

‘That’s what Laney said.’ I can’t seem to keep still.

‘But you know different.’

‘She don’t tell me everythin!’ Anger, the last desperate ploy to divert her. Sometimes it even works. Seeing Mum’s nostrils flare is how I imagine a shark scenting blood must look.

‘But she tells you the most, and you suspect somethin different. Spit it out right now or so help me, Stacey Thomson, they will write dirges about your fate.’ Mum likes reading, a lot. Sometimes I hate that I do too, maybe then I wouldn’t know what she was on about.

‘Since just after our birthday.’

A horrible silence follows. It is always worse when Mum goes quiet.