I was working on a hunch that Claire Bingley’s father had flown into Cairns to confront me, and that it wasn’t the kind of mission that would be extended out so that he could go sightseeing, maybe catch a jumping crocodile cruise. I figured he’d have left my house and gone right back to the airport to catch a plane home. The whole mission seemed badly planned, spur-of-the-moment. He might have seen a reflective feature story mentioning me and snapped. Might have just been thrown out by his wife. Maybe something had happened with Claire. He’d acted out of rage, and now that the deed was done and the dream was broken he’d be running, wondering if I’d called the police, if they’d answer, if they’d be waiting for him at the terminal.

I drove to Cairns airport, speeding all the way, now and then scratching at my bruised nose as blood dried inside my nostrils. I didn’t know if I’d find him. It was a terribly long shot. But I’d been too terrified to say what I needed to say at my house, and the man had been too angry to hear it.

I parked in the short-term parking lot and walked across the front of the long, squat buildings, looking in the windows at the empty check-in counters, receiving worried looks from the red-jacketed receptionists as I passed. The front of my shirt was splattered with blood, and I limped heavily on my left side, one arm hugged close to my body to brace what were probably cracked ribs against the jolting of my steps.

When you’ve been beat up a few times, as I have, you learn that the best way to manage the pain is to keep moving if you can, even if very slowly. The first time I’d been smacked around in prison—a misunderstanding over some newspapers in the rec room—I’d gone to the infirmary and curled up in the nice, soft bed and surrendered to the blessed desire to sleep. I’d been in general population until my segregation was approved. It was safer to sleep in the hospital there than it was in my cell; the beds were better, the place was cleaner, and there were more guards around. It was so quiet that I’d been able to delve briefly into a fantasy that I was free, outside, in a regular hospital. Big mistake. All my muscles seized up and all the fluids in my joints settled, and I woke up in more pain than when I’d arrived.

When I found Mr. Bingley, he wasn’t inside the airport at all, but sitting in a rental car in the hire lot. I spotted the white-blond hair, his head buried in his hands, defeated, just as I’d seen him in my kitchen. I stood nearby for a while waiting for him to lift his face, but he didn’t. I went to the passenger-side door and opened it, and when I got in he shuffled violently against the driver’s door, grabbing for the handle.