‘Hey, isn’t it Bella’s birthday soon?’ she shouted over the toilet partition. ‘Are you going to have a party at your house? Zoe would love to celebrate with her.’

When Tara finally dropped me home, I raced upstairs to check on Bella. She was stretched out in bed, her hair dark against the pink pillow. I knelt down next to her and listened to each sweet breath.

That night, I thought that finally I could become like the other mums. Despite my tears in the restaurant toilet, I’d managed to leave Bella with her father and go out to dinner.

But I was wrong. I was a bad mother; I always was, and always would be. I couldn’t protect my child.

The news reporters were outside the playgroup fence, swarming like vultures. After filming Superintendent Milson, they swept their cameras back and forth across the cubbyhouse and the windows, searchlights aiming to freeze their prey in the glare. Marty and I stood against the wall, as far back as we could. Clenching my hands together, I tried to stop my arms shaking. It worked if I squeezed them tight but then my legs would shake. Sergeant Caruso had chosen three photos for the media—a close-up of Bella’s face; one with her wearing fairy wings, pretending to be Tinker Bell; and one flying down a blue slippery slide. In the last photo, her cheeks were flushed, her hair in pigtails and her face creased in pure joy. It had been taken only twenty metres from our house in a small community playground built since the fires. Had anyone checked that playground? I mentioned it to the detective and he was on his radio straight away.

Marty’s mobile rang: Victoria. He’d spoken to his ex-wife earlier but Victoria had been at netball training. She sobbed down the phone about her little sister and asked if she could catch a bus to Canberra tonight.

God, no.

After he’d hung up, Marty moved me away from the others and whispered: ‘Did you tell the police about Victoria on the Father’s Day weekend?’

‘I don’t think so.’

The two incidents were so different that I hadn’t connected them.

‘They know,’ he hissed.

‘I wouldn’t have told them.’

‘Well, how do they know?’

Why was Marty worrying about Victoria? My mind whirled with Bella—the blankness of before had gone. Where could she be? Why did I go to the shops? Why hadn’t anyone seen her? Why would she leave playgroup? Was she safe somewhere? Was her arm hurting? I massaged my forehead and stared at Marty. With the worry etched into his face, he looked older than his forty-six years. He could be mistaken for Bella’s grandfather.

I tried to reassemble my thoughts. ‘I told the mums about Victoria’s escapade at that playgroup dinner a few weeks ago. Maybe one of them told the detective.’