‘Well done, boy,’ I whisper, stroking Skywalker’s silky head. ‘If there were acting awards for playing dead, you’d win an Oscar.’

Skywalker watches Michael, ears fierce, body primed.

‘Not yet. Just a little longer, okay?’ I grab Skywalker’s collar, hand tense and controlled. Poor boy, he’s desperate to run around after playing dead for so long. But not yet.

Skywalker and I have been practising the ‘dead weight’ command for over a year. When I say ‘dead weight’, Skywalker plays dead until I tell him to stop. It’s taken months of training.

I watch Michael go to the gate. I can’t see his face, but I can picture it: lips tight, blank eyes twitching. He’ll be furious.

Where is Liberty? She should be at the gate … Where’d she go?

Oh Michael, Michael.

I did warn you I never lose. That chess game we played? I beat you twenty different ways in my head. But I let you win on the board because this is about the big game. The game my mother lost. The ‘tell the world who Michael Reyji Ray really is’ game.

Michael is looking around the railings now, probably wondering if I’ve climbed them with a dead dog on my shoulder.

‘I have to give him credit,’ I tell Skywalker. ‘The birthday cake in the freezer was clever. He’s a quick thinker. But every slice looked the same. If it was from different years, some pieces would look older than others.’

Skywalker makes a noise and I clamp his mouth closed. ‘Not yet,’ I whisper. ‘Just wait. Nearly time.’

Skywalker has been key to winning this game. Yesterday he sniffed out human remains in Michael’s woodlands and found the gun shed – both important moves. I’ve trained Skywalker to be a cadaver dog. That means he can smell human remains, even from sixteen years ago. Some of the remains in Michael’s woodlands will belong to Cat Cannon’s missing daughter. The other sites – there were three in total – I have no idea. I geotagged the locations, anyway. The police can dig them up and examine the DNA.

‘Okay,’ I say, standing. ‘Stay, Skywalker. Stay right there.’

Skywalker drops to the floor, watching me.

Perfect.

I stumble onto the woodland path, breathless, frantic, the grade-A drama student.

‘Dad!’

Michael sees me through the trees and freezes. Surprise crosses his puffy little face. He jogs towards me, but slows to a huffing walk when he sees the shotgun under my arm.

‘Liberty,’ he says. ‘Where’d you get that gun from?’

‘Your gun shed. I smashed the lock off.’

‘Let’s not be silly. Why didn’t you go to the gate, love? You need to get your doggy to a vet, don’t you? Where’s your doggy? Give it to me, let’s not be silly now.’