‘I want to speak to her,’ I say.

He turns his phone screen to me and I see July. She’s in a different position now. The camera has zoomed out. Her wrists and ankles are taped. She begins jerking and kicking when she sees me. Then the gun is pressed against her head and she becomes still.

‘July,’ I sob. ‘I’m coming for you.’

Cormac turns the screen away.

‘I said get out.’

I climb out of the car. He still doesn’t know about the other phone, Evan’s phone, in my pocket. Could the police be listening at the other end of the call?

‘Come on,’ he says, pointing. He leads me to his car. ‘Get in the passenger seat.’ He has a laptop set up on the back seat and another black device. It crackles. He pulls a hood down over my head, and instinctively I reach for it, feeling claustrophobic, breathless.

‘Relax,’ he says. I bring my hands down slowly.

‘We’re not travelling far.’

I can’t see anything, but I hear the driver’s door open and close. He turns the car around, the gravel crackles beneath the wheels.

Through a bray of static someone speaks.

‘40127A is at the Kilsyth property, 8994 Shepherds Road. False alarm code 3144. Building is clear.’

‘Copy that, 40127A. False alarm code 3144.’

It’s a scanner. He’s listening to the fire service. Another sound, more voices. This time it’s the police. A traffic collision on the Princess Highway.

‘What is that?’ I ask.

‘Oh, I had to keep you honest, Margot. I had to make sure you didn’t call the police.’

Breathing is hard through the hessian sack. Fibres make my throat itch.

‘But we don’t have to listen to that.’

The radio comes on. Michael Bublé starts crooning. ‘Oh, I love this track,’ he says. I hear him drumming on the steering wheel with his fingertips.

I stay silent, hoping the phone call is still connected in my pocket, praying it doesn’t make a sound.

‘Not a fan, Margot?’

‘No,’ I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. Through the music there is more noise coming over the scanner. Most of it is in code, voices speaking quickly, reporting from crime scenes back to a dispatcher. I can’t follow any of it.

‘Where are you taking me?’

‘Now why would you want to know that?’

‘Are you taking me to July?’

‘No.’

‘Where is she?’

‘Oh, don’t worry, she’s somewhere safe.’

‘We must be near Mt Dandenong?’ I say.

‘Good guess.’

I’m pushed deep into my seat as he takes a corner at speed. Finally he slows down, turns sharply into another road. Then the car comes to a stop.

‘What’s happening? What’s that sound?’ I say, trying to give whoever might be listening some clues as to where we are. ‘Gravel?’