Scott must have followed her. Maybe he’d quit before his superiors could sack him. The Rooneys had kept their heads down. Cut all ties with Otford. Started a new life in a place where no one was going to ask awkward questions. Where they weren’t the only ones toting fake IDs.

And then I’d shown up. And they’d panicked. And Scott had tried to stop me from airing my suspicions.

And Aaron had rescued me.

I’d failed him all those years ago, but he hadn’t hesitated. As soon as he’d worked it all out, he’d gone straight to the police. To warn them. To stop his dad. To save my life by wrecking his own.

At that moment I heard the pulse of chopper blades. I looked up and saw the rescue helicopter beating its way towards us. Soon it was hovering over the parade ground, churning the air and forcing me to bow my head, eyes screwed shut. Then it slowly descended from the vast blue sky, like an act of divine grace.

NOW

NOW

WE ROLLED INTO Otford on an overcast Sunday morning. Dead leaves skittered across the main road. Most of the shops were shut and some were vacant. The second butcher was gone; so were the Commonwealth Bank, Cool Beans Café and the corner florist. Roadside plantings were full of discarded soft-drink cans.

I flinched as we passed Foodworks.

‘Seen better days,’ Warren remarked beside me.

‘Mmm.’ The footpaths were almost deserted, though here and there a lone pedestrian trudged along, grim-faced, holding a takeaway coffee or towing a dog. I didn’t recognise anyone.

‘So where do we turn?’ asked Warren, on reaching the end of the retail strip.

‘Keep going.’

We passed the RSL. A nursing home. The Sunburnt Country Motel. I was pleased to see how shabby the motel looked, with its cracked concrete carpark and spindly box hedges. We’d stayed in Bathurst the previous night because I’d refused to spend a single unnecessary minute in Otford—and one glance at that motel told me I’d made the right decision.

‘Here,’ I said. ‘Next left.’

We turned into Hamilton Street and I braced myself. I knew the school was coming up. I saw the familiar zebra crossing. The big claret ash, leafless now. The chainlink fence.

Warren must have sensed me stiffening. ‘What?’

‘That’s where I used to work.’ Two of the demountables were new. I didn’t recognise one of the murals.

‘You okay?’ Warren asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Sure?’

‘Next right.’

I spotted the fibro place with the green shutters. It had once been rigidly neat, its hedges clipped, its lawn a masterpiece. Now it was ringed by broken toys and car parts. The little white weatherboard next to it had sprouted a big glass extension like a tumour. Trees had been cut down. An old garage had collapsed.