Dubbs, Matthew. Camden. Ford Falcon XF Ute. 1987. SHF 111. White.

French, Anna. Woodbine. Ford Falcon XF Ute. 1988. AL 29 EE. Red.

The list went on and on, little buttons at the bottom of the page taking the search out wider and wider from my selected location, Mount Annan. I adjusted the dates for my search. Nothing. Fabiana tried to call back. I ignored the call. Trying to search on my tiny phone was giving me motion sickness. Sharon pulled the car over on another grassy strip and I climbed out. I felt helpless, furious. A text came in from Kelly asking when my flight was leaving. I had a flash of myself in my old house, Lillian in my arms, Kelly at my back, everything that had been stolen from me. I screamed and kicked over a road marker, threw the phone onto the grass.

“Bro, calm down,” Linda was saying. I grabbed him, just to have something to grab on to, my fingers biting through the fabric of his suit jacket. It was a mistake. I smelled his heavy cologne as he pushed me up against the side of the car with the effort of a man subduing a child, knocking the wind from my chest.

“Chill, bro. Just fucking chill. What did the dude say?” Linda held me pinned against the car with a single hand against my chest. It was impossible to move. “What did he look like?”

“He was young,” I said. I squeezed my eyes shut. Twenty-five, I guessed. Closer to thirty maybe. I had a flash of Dale Bingley in my kitchen in Crimson Lake. His words coming out of my mouth. The description of the man who had adopted the white dog from the British couple on the day of Claire’s abduction. “Young man, maybe twenty-five. Neatly dressed, brown hair. Polite.”

How can he be twenty-five? Dale had pleaded. These people are telling me the guy who raped my daughter is twenty-five years old.

Linda let me go. Cars were whizzing past us on the road. A golf course split down the middle, cyclone fencing. I retrieved my phone, went to the diamond wire and held on to the fence. I watched old men meandering across the immaculate greens, their long, pressed trousers.

“He interrupted the old guy,” I whispered.

“Huh?” Linda was behind me. I turned.

“The old guy. At the pub. What was he saying? Did you hear? He was talking about Ford Falcons. About … badges. Car badges? Kevin came and interrupted him, cut him off. The old guy was saying the … the Aussie car companies had been trying to fight off foreign … foreign car sales?”

“Rebadging,” Sharon said from the car, his arm over the back of the passenger seat, watching us. I ran to the open door.

“What?”