The children had let their guard down; they were calm and happy. This morning, Chloe had come to the front of the classroom to hold up her picture. Van had shown off a Stars Wars chess set that his dad had bought in America. Without Fox’s distractions, they were whipping through their work. In this afternoon’s period, he would do something special: a reading group under the trees or a nature hunt in the grounds to fit in with their topic on seasons. Collecting leaves, with no concerns about the Tiny Terror causing trouble. Although it depended on the police presence at the playgroup—that would unsettle the class. He’d have to take them down to the other side of the school, with its view of the Brindabellas.

6 LEXIE

6

LEXIE

WHY HAVEN’T THE POLICE CALLED? SOMEONE MUST HAVE FOUND HER by now. Where is she? My little girl. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

I held myself tightly, my hands wrapped over my arms, my fingers clawing into my muscles.

Midday. Bella would be hungry. And thirsty. Hopefully not cold. Thank God she had on that pink woollen coat, not the thin blue cardigan. Driving and driving and no sign of her. How far could she walk in an hour and a half? Maybe she’d run after a kitten or followed another child. When any other image tried to form in my mind, I’d force it down, along with the hot panic. The chanting helped. And the sting of my fingernails on my skin.

‘Left or right?’ Marty asked as he stopped the car at an intersection.

‘Left,’ I said. Not that it mattered. Soon we would go right. We had to cover all the streets.

In the middle of Merrigang, the streets were familiar. We had walked around here—Bella on her purple scooter, darting down the pavements then asking me to carry it up whenever there was a slope. Merrigang had curling streets: half-circles, circuits and cul-de-sacs, all doubling back on themselves. Nestled against the ridge, the roads weaved along its contours and came to a dead end two-thirds of the way up, where the bushland took over.

‘Marty, STOP THE CAR!’

In a small playground, a child was sitting at the bottom of a slide—not sliding, just sitting. It’s her! She can’t climb the ladder with her broken wrist.

I was out of the car and running while Marty was still asking what I’d seen.

‘Bella! Bella, darling!’

The child glared at me, scrunched up its face and fled to a bench at the edge of the playground. I hadn’t noticed the mother and baby sitting there—my eyes had been locked on the child. Not Bella. A boy. About the same size as Bella, dressed in a pinkish-purple hoodie and blue jeans.

‘What do you want?’ the young mother demanded, tucking her son in next to her on the bench. ‘You scared him.’