‘We’ll take care of the boy,’ Dad says. ‘Keep him away from your train wreck. You can go now. I’ll explain to him.’

‘I’m not leaving him here today. I said soon.’ Maria rolls her eyes. ‘I can see your daughter is the details person.’

‘Do what you need to. We’ll be here,’ Dad says.

Maria picks her backpack up off the floor. ‘Beau,’ she calls out. ‘Time to go, buddy.’

Beau runs into the room, Woof at his heels. ‘Thanks for the juice.’ He offers us a small, odd wave.

And then Dad and I are alone.

‘How do you know what her hair looked like?’ He narrows his eyes at me. ‘There’s no photograph.’

‘Well, it’s nothing like Finn’s hair so it must be like hers.’ I want to run.

‘Don’t screw with me.’

‘People talk about things when you’re not around, Dad. I asked about her at the funeral. Donna told me –’

‘Bullshit. You’ve seen her.’

I don’t reply but I know he catches the anxious dart of my eyes, the flash of panic. ‘You were at the car, weren’t you? You took her out.’

He reaches across, grabs a fistful of my t-shirt and yanks me closer. I stumble, caught off-guard. ‘Didn’t you?’ He spits the words out. ‘Answer me!’

He’s not as strong as when he was young, but my father can still punch. And though I push him away, and duck to avoid his swings, I’m not quick enough. He slams his fist into my jaw with the force of a twenty-year-old. The blow sends vibrations up through my head. He shoves me against the closest wall.

I shove him hard and he falls back against the pantry door. I run out of the room, down the stairs and onto the street. I keep running.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Monday 30 December 1974

Abby

I pull into the carport and beep the horn. Mark won’t be home yet – he’s helping Geoff build a pergola – but Dad or Charlie might be here to help me get Sarah, the twins and the groceries into the house. Nobody responds to my beeping.

‘Bugger.’

‘Bugger,’ Sarah echoes.

‘Don’t say that.’ I wind my window up, sling my handbag over my shoulder. ‘Out you pop.’

By the time I get to Sarah’s door it’s still closed, though I can see her trying to push it open. I lift her out and heave the twins one by one onto the cool shaded concrete, touching my palm to it for quick relief from the relentless heat of the day.

‘Go see if anyone’s inside, Sar. Tell them Mum needs a hand.’

Putting three-year-olds down in an open space is asking for trouble. Joanne walks down the steep driveway; Petey heads to the hot front grill of the car.

‘For the love of –’ I scoop up Joanne while yelling to Petey, ‘Don’t touch the car. It’s hot. Hot.’ I hear a small howl that builds to a scream before I can get to him. I pick him up so I have a twin dangled under each arm, my handbag pushing into my hip. They’re both whining, and squirming like puppies. ‘Stop, please, both of you.’