Sitting at the kitchen bench, Marty had four tabs open on his laptop: the newspaper article about their son; Nurse Natalie’s anti-euthanasia website; a White Pages search for Brendan Parrish’s address; and a Merrigang school newsletter profiling the teacher—Mr Parrish had said how happy he was to live so close to the school and to be part of such a friendly village community.

A knock on the glass sliding door made Marty look up. Mr Whitlaw, the neighbour from along the street, stood on their back deck, his large dog by his side.

‘Martin, I just wanted to check in to see if we could offer any help. The wife has baked some lasagne.’

The old man handed over a baking dish covered in foil.

‘That’s very kind. Please thank her for me.’

Marty kept his fingers on the handle, ready to close the door.

‘Can I do anything for you, Martin?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Any jobs around the house? I’m good at fixing things.’

‘Nope,’ Marty barked.

How could the old man think of maintenance jobs at a time like this? Or did he just want to get inside?

‘How’s Lexie holding up? Can I pop in and see her?’

The man’s gaze shifted upwards to the bedrooms, then over Marty’s shoulder towards the kitchen and finally back down to the dog. Mr Whitlaw scratched his dog behind the ears. Avoided eye contact with Marty.

‘She’s resting. But I’ll pass on your kind thoughts.’

‘Let her know that we’re here if she needs us. Bella is a delightful little girl. We’ll do anything we can to help. Napoleon is missing her cuddles.’

Mr Whitlaw patted the dog again and Marty wondered how much time Bella had spent with Napoleon and his owner. And what was the man doing here, in their garden?

‘Why did you come to our back door, Mr Whitlaw?’

‘Haven’t you seen out the front, Martin? Television crews everywhere. They want to film your every move. Thought you’d appreciate a bit more discretion.’

Just what they needed—their every move caught on tape and broadcast on the six o’clock news. Would Janice across the road be furious at the intrusion or making cups of tea for the camera operators and spreading gossip? Maybe she could tell them that he did a good deed, digging a grave for her dead chickens. Digging a grave. Fuck, that would be a headline in five seconds flat.

‘It’s a dreadful, dreadful situation.’ Mr Whitlaw fiddled with his glasses, took them off and put them on again. ‘I don’t understand it. We were all there at the shops when it happened.’

A small community. So small that someone must have seen Bella; someone must know where she was.

‘Who exactly was at the shops, Mr Whitlaw?’