The school bus began its ascent towards the expansive school grounds, which were nestled halfway up the escarpment. Jasmine rode the rest of the way in silence, looking out at the bushland that crowded the road, dense and thick, white gum and dogwood and ferns and scrub, a cliff on one side and a steep drop on the other.

Her dad had once made a joke about this road, how the bush in that gully was so thick you could just chuck a body from the side of the road and no one would ever find it: it could sit mere metres from the asphalt and never been seen again, especially since the scavenger Tasmanian devils with their wicked strong jaws would make short work of the body. Mum had hit Dad in the arm after that comment, made a scathing remark about how the girls from 1985 still hadn’t been found and reminding him that his own daughter was in the car, listening to his every word.

Of course years later, when Mum was dead and Dad was significantly more prone to getting drunk, he had rambled on about a guy he used to kick around with who had been desperate for money and so had taken on a hit from one of the gangs. It was only $3000, but he did it anyway. He brought the mark – a dog from a drug case – up here from Hobart, killed him, and rolled his body into the bush somewhere on this road. That was years ago, and as far as she knew, no one had ever found the body.

They came around the corner and the grassy grounds of the school opened up. The bus rolled down the school driveway, the sun disappearing behind the leafy branches of the conker trees that lined the way. Jasmine noticed that Yani was one of the first to leave the bus, fleeing across the car park before Madison could reach her.

The walk to Homegroup seemed to take no time at all. The four of them stuck together, Madison interviewing them about the coming trip, twirling her hair with one finger.

They passed the Year 7 area, and a few boys who worshipped Madison called out to her; they passed the Home Economics block, which smelled of concrete dust and mildew, closed off for renovations that had been happening for years; passed the weird alternative kids who sat out the front, hiding the cigarettes they were obviously smoking.

When they passed the library, and the staffroom beside it, Jasmine slowed. She caught the eye of Mr Michaels, one of the teacher’s assistants. He was only twenty-one, with a bit of scruff on a cinderblock jaw and dazed-looking brown eyes.