Warren and I were living on the outskirts of Newcastle by then. After leaving Finch Island, I was troubled by nightmares, insomnia, panic attacks; Warren invited me to join his PTSD support group, and things developed from there. I quit Parks and Wildlife. Found casual work in Newcastle with a builder who’d once worked for Dad. Rented a granny flat from the same builder and spent my evenings on the phone to Warren, cautiously opening up. Then the pandemic torpedoed Vetnet, and Warren moved in with me just before the borders closed.

He already had a logistics job. It was flexible and had never interfered with his Vetnet duties, but the change was very difficult for him. He had migraines. A touch of vertigo. He had to cope with gym closures and cancelled support groups. We were lucky that rents dropped—it meant we could afford a bigger place where we weren’t bumping into each other all the time. It was a three-bedroom house out on the fringes, near a zipline adventure park where Warren eventually picked up the odd shift. He found some online counselling; I tracked down a good local therapist. Bit by bit, we were knitting together a life. Going for bushwalks. Making each other cups of tea. Discovering a shared interest in high-tech thrillers.

Then Aaron reached out and I was torn. He was a kid with issues. He wouldn’t be easy to live with. If I took him in, I would risk everything that Warren and I were creating.

On the other hand, I owed Aaron a debt. And if I managed to help him, I would finally be able to shrug off the load of guilt I’d been carrying around for more than ten years.

Warren understood this better than anyone. ‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said. ‘I can handle him—you know I can. Shit, it’ll be good for me to keep my hand in.’

Three weeks later we were driving through Otford, with Aaron slumped in the back seat. It had been relatively easy to communicate via email, but now that we were face to face, I felt awkward. I didn’t know what to say. Neither did Warren.

‘So have you heard anything about court dates?’ I finally asked, because Scott Rooney still hadn’t been tried for murder. He’d been convicted of assaulting Warren, after a brief trial that had played havoc with my mental health. But he hadn’t yet faced court for killing Krystal.

‘Nope.’ Aaron was never keen to talk about the Rooneys. ‘Hey, can we make one more stop before we go? I have to say goodbye to Mum.’

‘Sure.’ I directed Warren towards the cemetery, which lay at the very edge of town. On our way there, I watched Aaron in the rearview mirror. He was gnawing at his nails as he stared out the window.

I wondered if a small part of him was sorry to leave.