BRENDAN ARRIVED AT HIS PARENTS’ HOUSE NOT LONG AFTER MIDDAY. Trevor slapped him on the back then offered him a beer, which Brendan wasn’t supposed to drink, according to the hospital discharge form. Lynette fussed around with his bag, tentatively touched his bandage and rushed off to get Scotch Finger biscuits and cups of tea. Rufus gave him the warmest welcome, barking in delight and nuzzling his legs. Back in his childhood room, surrounded by old snowboarding posters blu-tacked onto the walls, more than three hundred kilometres away from that crazy doctor and the police, Brendan felt safer.

After a lunch of egg mayo sandwiches (Mum still thought it was his favourite filling), Trevor asked for his help to fix the lawn mower. Rufus followed them out to the garden, pushing his wet nose against Brendan’s palm, demanding a scratch on the neck.

‘Why d’you reckon this fella thinks you’re involved?’ Trevor asked.

‘’Cos I took some photos months ago,’ Brendan explained as he bent down and unscrewed the oil tank on the mower. ‘The father’s desperate. Clutching at straws. I was a handy punching bag.’

‘Guess he’s off his rocker with worry.’

‘Yeah.’ Brendan grimaced, picturing Marty’s face as he’d charged at him, demanding the key to his shed.

‘And your house is close to this playgroup too, that right?’

‘Yep, but it was a Thursday morning. I was at school.’

‘And the other teachers and kids can verify that—good.’

Using an old screwdriver, Brendan swirled the oil around inside the tank.

‘Yeah, but I did go and get a coffee.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘From the shops where the girl disappeared.’

This was the moment. He could explain that he’d bought a coffee, then popped home to collect his lunch and had forgotten to mention that part to the police. What would Dad say? Tell them quickly, mate, as quick as a dog can lick a dish. Or would he be more laidback? Ask if anyone could have seen him and then say: Let sleeping dogs lie, mate. But if he admitted to one part of it, what about the rest? As Brendan was considering the options, his dad spoke again.

‘And then you went straight back to school?’

Nodding slowly, Brendan concentrated on pouring oil into the small opening.

‘So this fella, he’s barking up the wrong tree then, isn’t he, mate?’

‘Yep, the wrong tree,’ Brendan echoed.