Darren spun her around, facing her. ‘Listen, Miss Ellis, I know it’s cruel, but you might still be the only way we have to find those girls. You’re a good person. It’s not your fault they went missing.’ She wished he’d stop, but he kept talking. ‘You can’t give up yet . . . stay with us —’

She looked up into his eyes. She struggled to focus. She looked back down.

He sighed and turned the ignition.

The motorbike roared into life, the sound of the engine blocking out the wind and the rain, warming her, a reminder of technology and civilisation, as they set off, back towards town, away from the wilderness.

All the while, Eliza thought of her niece.

And of what was to come.

CHAPTER 29

MURPHY

The dream was familiar enough by now that he could almost remember he was dreaming.

And he fell slower now, the foggy ground taking longer to reach him.

We’re going to find you, Jasmine. We’re going to find you.

He expected to see his daughter, waiting for him on the ground, but it wasn’t her . . . It was his wife.

Sara stood, face upturned, hair tousled in the wind, laughing as she reached up for him. A lavender dress left her shoulders bare; her teeth flashed white, excitement in her eyes, as he crashed into her.

He jerked awake. He took a few heavy breaths, then rolled onto his side and stared into the darkness.

Later that morning, Murphy stood on the footpath outside his house, reading the profanity that had been marked into his front lawn with weed killer.

An old woman power-walked past: her daily exercise route. She slowed and pointedly looked at the words. She made a noise and glared at Murphy, before power-walking on.

‘Well I didn’t write it!’ he shouted after her.

She just increased her pace.

Across the road were two parked cars: a police car, the cops inside watching Murphy, the second a journalist’s, who stood there snapping photos of him. Murphy slowly scratched his balls, looking the man dead in the eye, then stalked back to the front door. He slammed the door shut behind him.

‘Don’t do any more damage to the bloody house,’ muttered Butch, wearing his Blundstone boots to clean up the broken glass scattered across the kitchen floor, the window broken during the night by another brick. It seemed Madison’s heartfelt video declaring his innocence hadn’t convinced everyone.

Murphy threw himself into the couch. He looked at the TV and turned away. The TV had a hole in the middle of it: that had been Butch’s foot.