Once past the houses, Mel sped up. Marty had allowed one car between them—the only other vehicle on the road: an old Land Rover puffing out diesel fumes every time they went up a steep hill. The higher parts of the countryside were now thick forest, while farms were laid out on the gentler slopes in between. Sheep dotted the brown paddocks. Hardly any grass. The farmers must be buying in hay to keep them alive. Did Mel have a friend who lived out here? Or had she seen Marty and decided to lead him on a wild-goose chase as a joke? Another fucking joke—like sitting in his lounge room last night, waiting to surprise him.

Marty groaned. He should get back. Find out what the police had on Parrish. He was looking for somewhere to turn around when the Land Rover braked in front of him. It was slowing for Mel’s van, which was turning into a dirt track. Marty drove a few hundred metres up the road, found a place to swing the car around, then circled back.

Pulling over next to the dirt track, he stopped the car and considered his options. The track was surrounded by thick clumps of trees, with no house visible. Wind whipped through the branches above him. Mel might own a farm down that track. Or maybe she’s going bushwalking. Both those possibilities were so unlikely. She’s supposed to be working today. She has never mentioned a farm. As if she’d go bushwalking today, in this weather, with Bella missing, and leave her son at home.

Where was her son today? he wondered. If only Bella was returned to them, Marty would never let her out of his sight. With a sudden pang he realised: this was how Lexie felt.

Leaning back against the headrest, Marty bawled, tears and mucus dripping down his face.

Beautiful, bouncing Bella, the surprise child who had been delivered to them after Archie. To help them survive.

Archie’s birth was supposed to be a celebration of his new life together with Lexie. Yet despite all his safeguards—the tests, the ultrasounds, the right diet, the right exercise, the best obstetrician—at some point, the baby—his baby—was deprived of oxygen. Marty had been in the delivery suite the whole time. It wasn’t until Archie came out blue, floppy, lifeless, that any of them even realised. Perinatal asphyxia.

The seizures began a few hours later in the neonatal intensive care unit. Severe hypoxic ischemic encephalopathy. Marty had diagnosed it in other babies, discussed treatment plans and tried to explain it to the shell-shocked parents, whose expectation of a healthy baby had just been shattered. He could recite the statistics. Intrapartum hypoxia affects one to two infants in every thousand live full-term births. Moderate to severe encephalopathy affects 0.5 to one baby in every thousand full-term live births.