“If that fat fucking dog goes for me, I’m going to swat it.” Gamble had a hand on his baton, Celine tracking him as he stepped back from her.

“You touch my dog and I will end you.” I looked Gamble in the eyes, my whole body trembling with rage. “I mean it. I will fucking. End. You.”

Gamble must have seen something in me that turned him. He glanced at Frisp for encouragement, but found none. Trying to breathe, I put my hands on the wall, still talking for the sake of the officers’ body recorders, which I hoped were turned on.

“I have not been read my rights,” I said. “I’ve seen no arrest warrant. My property has been unlawfully confiscated. I don’t know where I’m being taken or why.”

“Save the victim act for the courtroom, Conkaffey.” Frisp cuffed my hands behind my back, ratcheting the metal bands too tight.

My mind was crashing. I needed to stay calm, stay ahead of the game, but blood was rushing into my neck and face. I couldn’t swallow. I let them lead me to the car to avoid upsetting my animals any more than was necessary. As I turned the corner at the side of the house, I saw the geese were on their feet at the end of the yard, beaks high with distress, wings splayed out from panting breasts. Celine followed us, whimpering and growling, until I stopped beside the driveway.

“Celine, it’s okay. Go to your bed and stay.” She took uncertain, fearful steps back toward the porch. “Good girl. On your bed.”

In the car, Frisp tossed my phone into the center console, which was stuffed with cigarette butts. There was a pressure in my chest and back like hands pushing against my ribcage, squeezing the life out of me, making my eyes bulge. I sucked in air and tried to stay calm, tried to rationalize the situation. Amanda would already be putting the SOS plan into action. There was nothing I could do now to stay free, but I could do things to get free again. Time to change tactics. Gather information.

As far as I was concerned, there were three possibilities.

First, that my charges for the abduction, sexual assault, and attempted murder of Claire Bingley had been brought again. If that was the case, then I had a plan. I knew who had really assaulted Claire, and her father did, too. Months earlier, I had watched helplessly as Dale Bingley had murdered her attacker, a young man named Kevin Driscoll, in a Sydney warehouse. To prove my innocence to him, at least, I’d helped Claire’s father find the real perpetrator. And he’d enacted his brutal revenge. A diary had been found in Driscoll’s car that implicated him in Claire’s attack. I would use that to defend myself in a new trial. It wasn’t much, but it was something.