Caruso hadn’t been to church since Easter. The full family affair—his parents, his sister with her husband and kids, uncle and aunt, cousins big and small. Afterwards they’d had lunch at his parents’ house; his mum had insisted on cooking her traditional dishes—roast lamb, artichokes and potatoes, ciambellone and pasticiotti. His sister had baked an excellent torta pasqualina, and Caruso had brought salami and cheese from a good deli. He’d left early to go mountain biking, before his aunt could interrogate him about the new girlfriend.

As he stepped through the doors and saw the tall columns and the nave leading up to the altar, a sense of peace came over him. We’ll find her. The thought came unbidden. But will we find her dead or alive? he asked Jesus, strung up on a cross positioned in the centre of a huge stained-glass window. High above him, two stone angels trumpeted the Lord.

‘It’s an amazing building.’

Not many of the churches in Canberra were old like this. It was similar to the church that Caruso’s grandparents used to attend in Melbourne.

‘It has an interesting history.’ The reverend blew his nose before continuing. ‘Sorry, winter flu still hanging over me. The building was originally a mortuary station in Sydney. The whole thing was moved down here stone by stone and reassembled.’

‘Mortuary station?’ Suze turned to face him quickly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It was the station for funeral trains at Rookwood cemetery. The coffins were unloaded undercover. The railway line would have run into here.’

As the reverend spread his arms out along the nave, indicating where the train tracks would have been, Caruso suddenly understood why there was such a high arch above the front door—so the train would fit through. A shiver ran down the back of his neck and Caruso rubbed his arms.

His feeling of peace had been short-lived.

34 LEXIE

34

LEXIE

IMOGEN HAD BROUGHT CINNAMON CAKE FOR MORNING TEA. THE SUGARY scent made my eyes well up. When we were little, on cold, rainy days, Mum would set Phoebe and I up in the kitchen to make teacake. As soon as it was out of the oven, steaming hot, we’d slice it up and cover it in butter. Light and fluffy cake, the sweetness of cinnamon sugar and the creamy butter melted together in our mouths. Would I ever bake a cinnamon teacake with Bella?

‘The search kept going through the night,’ Imogen said. ‘They didn’t even stop when it was drizzling.’

Sometime after midnight, I’d taken a sleeping tablet, crept into bed next to Marty and fallen into disjointed dreams.

‘Is the Facebook page helping?’ I asked. I hadn’t dared to open it on my computer.

‘It’s getting the word out there,’ Imogen said. ‘People are reading it and coming down to search or hand out posters. Our whole congregation has been helping as well.’