I’d taken the side entrance to headquarters, having spotted press on the front steps of the towering concrete building. I wondered if someone in Melanie’s camp had leaked that I would be giving a police statement, or if one of my old colleagues had got wind of it and told the media. The entryway I took was reserved for notorious killers and rapists coming to give evidence, undercover cops and informants. Now me, the most hated man in Australia.

I hadn’t seen Little Frankie since the morning I was arrested, the few agonizing hours she and my workmates had been given to shout at me in the interrogation room, express their horror and disgust. It hadn’t been an official questioning. They’d just needed their time to ask me directly if I’d done what I was accused of, to look me in the eye and see if I lied to them.

Short, stocky Frankie, with her heart-shaped face perpetually turned upward. She’d always had to stand on a milk crate when we took squad photos so that me and the guys didn’t tower comically over her. We’d graduated from the academy together. Sean strode forward when I appeared and shook my hand.

“Melanie Springfield is coming in to give her statement today,” Sean said. He clapped me on the shoulder. “But we’ll be in and out before she arrives.”

“So she is coming,” I said. “She is going through with it.”

Sean didn’t answer. Or maybe he did, and I didn’t hear it. I was reeling. Frankie took a stiff step forward and cleared her throat, professional distance, protecting her heart. She’d always been a crier, Frankie, but she wasn’t crying now. Her eyes were red and her lips were a thin, hard line, but she wasn’t giving in.

“I’ll take you up to the interview room,” she said.

“Level five?” I asked. My old level.

“No, seven,” she said unevenly. “We thought … It’s just that Davo and Morris are here, you know, so…”

My drug squad brothers. I understood. It would be more than reasonable to expect either of them to take a swing at me, given the chance. Our other colleagues probably expected it, in fact. I followed Frankie and Sean into the elevator and we emerged on a long hall of empty interview rooms. We took one and Sean and I sat quietly on one side of the table while Frankie set up the things we would need, official police statement sheets and paper. She went and retrieved coffee, which I thought was nice. She wasn’t obliged to do anything like that. She kept her eyes steadfastly away from mine, which was facilitated by her floppy black hair constantly falling across her brow. She’d never been very confident about her hair. She had been frequently cutting it all off when I knew her, regretting it then trying to grow it out. She poured the coffee and put a packet of sugar down next to my cup, slid the milk over to me. She remembered how I liked it. After everything that had happened, she still knew me. I wanted to tell her, like I had on the phone, that she still knew me. This was proof. But instead, other words rose.