‘I’ve told you all I know. If I think of anything else, you’ll hear from me.’

Waring’s eyes narrowed. But as he opened his mouth, Ries stood up.

‘We’d appreciate that,’ Ries said. ‘The sooner this is sorted, the better. You can imagine how the Rooneys feel right now. They’re devastated.’

I didn’t respond. I just waited for them to leave. It wasn’t until they were thumping down my front steps that I thought to ask, ‘Where were the Rooneys this weekend?’

The two of them stopped and looked back. Ries said, ‘At home.’ Then he followed Rick Waring back to their patrol car—which was parked on the street, in full view of my neighbours.

I wondered how long it would be before the news got out.

I dreamed about Troy that night. It was a dream that started off well, the way our marriage did; he was trying to make me wear tiny shorts because of my ‘amazing giraffe legs’. And I was saying no, no, I was pregnant, couldn’t he see? I would look like a balloon with two strings.

Then I was on the couch—Krystal’s couch—feeling sick, lifeless, devastated, and he was talking about the baby: how great it would look with his hair and my legs. I kept saying there is no baby. There is no baby. But he wouldn’t listen. He went on and on about how wonderful it would be, how fabulous I looked, and it all rang so hollow. I could smell decay under the words, the way I did those last few months, when I felt as if I was treading on rotten boards that might collapse at any moment. I could sense the lies, but I couldn’t see them. Not until I walked into the apartment that day and there they were. Annette and Troy. Facing each other across the living room, waiting for me.

It was a shock, but not a surprise. Not really. For weeks I’d been wrestling with a creeping awareness of doom. Of desolation. Of things going wrong.

I was highly attuned to the signals.

None of my parent helpers showed up the next morning, though they all sent their kids. Oscar and George were more rambunctious than usual. Phoebe chided me at roll call.

‘Aaron’s not here,’ she announced. ‘Mum says it’s your fault. Mum says you should tell the police where he’s gone before something bad happens.’

‘I don’t know where he’s gone, Phoebe, but if I did I would tell the police.’ Seeing Luke’s face crumple, I quickly reassured him. ‘Anyway, nothing bad is going to happen. Aaron will be fine.’