Once the mower was running smoothly, Brendan offered to do the backyard. He began the process of trawling up and down the lawn, with Lynette sitting on the back porch with her cup of tea. Was she watching him, like his dad had done? He’d better get rid of his other phone before the end of the day. And the bag. He should’ve put the phone on the ground at a rest stop on his way here and driven the car over it, then dumped the bag down one of those pit toilets. Thank God the police hadn’t noticed it when they’d been checking his study.

‘Hey, Mum, I could get takeaway for dinner if you like—my treat.’ An excuse to get out of the house so he could ditch the phone and bag. ‘What’s good in town these days? Is that Chinese place still open?’

‘No—thanks for the offer, but I’m cooking a roast for you.’ Lynette smiled.

Unable to think of another excuse to leave the house, Brendan hid the phone in his old ski boots at the bottom of his wardrobe and the bag underneath some coats up the top. He turned the library bag upside down so he wouldn’t see the child’s name scrawled in black marker: Fox Hensley.

After dinner his mother insisted on watching the Weekend Wrap. Seated on the floral sofas in the good room, Brendan stared at the photo on the mantelpiece: a picture of the four of them taken last winter when his sister had come home for a month. She was in Canada now, cooking in a funky Vancouver cafe in between seasons at Whistler. If only he could escape to Canada …

On the telly, Bella’s father looked as arrogant four years ago as he had yesterday when he’d broken into Brendan’s house. The type of guy who thought he owned the world. Doctors, lawyers, accountants—they were all the same. Fucking wankers. They looked down on public education and thought that teaching was ‘women’s work’. Even though it wasn’t cool to admit it, Brendan loved his job. Despite the bureaucracy and the low pay, he loved kids. He loved expanding their minds. Introducing them to new experiences. And Merrigang was great—so small that he knew all of the kids.

The reporter mentioned that Dr Parker was a paediatrician—hmm, Brendan hadn’t pegged him as someone who worked with kids. Perhaps he was one of those self-important specialists who didn’t actually listen to his patients. A nurse who had worked with Dr Parker came on screen and confirmed Brendan’s suspicions.

‘I felt Dr Ross had a god complex,’ the woman said. ‘He would decide which patients should live and which patients should die.’

‘Is this fella’s name Ross or Parker?’ Dad asked from the other sofa.