“I did it, Mr. Conkaffey.” Stephanie drew away from me, wiped her face. She looked up at me, her mouth trembling, a downturned line. “It was me. I did it.”

Dr. Valerie Gratteur was at the head of the gurney, about to push Andrew’s body away toward the double doors. An unlit cigarette hung from her bottom lip, her mouth open in shock. I stared at the medical examiner, trying to put my thoughts in order. Stephanie’s hand came up to my arm, and with a weight that didn’t seem to fit with her tiny figure, she gripped me, as though hanging on against a terrible current.

“I was there that night,” Stephanie said. “I killed them.”

Val gave me a look that said “I told you so” and began wheeling the gurney with Andrew Bell’s body on it away to give us time. I took a chair from Val’s workbench and dragged it to where Stephanie stood. She eased into it like she was favoring fresh wounds.

“I’m going to turn on the recorder on my phone,” I told Stephanie. “Is that okay? I really think we need to … uh…”

“It’s fine. It’s okay.” Stephanie nodded, wiping tears. “I know you have to do what you have to do.”

The girl had become stiff, numb. Val crept into the room and stood leaning against a spare gurney near us. I brought up the voice memo app on my phone and started recording.

“You’re not obliged to say anything at all to me,” I said. “You’re here of your own free will. No one’s threatening you. No one’s pressuring you right now. Would you agree?”

“Yes,” Stephanie said, nodding.

The hand that held the phone was shaking. I tapped the screen, made doubly sure the seconds were being recorded.

“I’m Ted Conkaffey,” I said. I’d forgotten the old scripts I used to use for interviews, the ones that ensured the confession was useful to Sweeney and her team. My career as a police officer seemed a million years ago. “I’m in the presence of Dr. Valerie Gratteur of the Cairns Hospital’s Forensic and Scientific Services office, and Stephanie Neash. Stephanie, you’ve … you’ve just said something to me and I think it might be a good idea if you say it again for the recording.”

I stated the date and time, having almost forgotten to, struggling to decide if this was appropriate. She was over eighteen, legally an adult. I wasn’t obliged to wait until she had a lawyer or a parent or guardian with her. The recording I was about to make might not stand up in any courthouse. But exhilaration and terror were coursing through me, and all I knew was that I wanted to capture what she was about to say even if it meant it would be legally problematic.