The drive held a folder named ‘Jasmine’s Footage’ and a text file entitled ‘Read Me First’.

Jasmine’s Footage. Murphy’s heart began to pound in his head. Don’t get excited. Madison can’t be trusted . . .

He opened the text file and began reading:

Mr Murphy,

I know you probably hate me, and I understand. I would if I were you.

I promise I don’t know where Jasmine is. And I don’t know what happened to Georgia, or why Bree’s backpack was still at the Fisherman’s Hut. But if Jasmine’s and Cierra’s backpacks are gone, I know that they’re safe. I’m sure of it.

I think it’d be good for you to understand why Jasmine chose to be part of this, why she chose to disappear for six months. Why she played along with my plan. Here’s all the footage I have of her.

If you share this footage with anyone else, I’ll end you.

Once you see what’s in the folder, you’ll realise that I can. Start with video #1.

Lots of Love,

Madison xoxo

The drive held six numbered MP4 files.

‘What is it?’ said Butch.

Disappear for six months . . .

‘I’ll be in my room,’ said Murphy, taking the laptop down the hallway and ignoring Butch’s protest.

He made sure the worn door was firmly closed and sat on his bed, the springs squeaking. He clicked open the first video.

It was Jasmine. She was sitting on Madison’s bed. Her make-up was heavy, her shoulders back, and she had been crying.

Murphy leaned forward, resting a hand on the screen.

‘. . . and that’s why I got with Jack,’ she said. ‘He was strong, and caring, and he made me feel safe. He loves me. For the longest time I wasn’t sure if . . . if I was worthy of love. If I could trust another man —’

‘And why was that, Jasmine?’ came Madison’s voice from behind the camera.

Jasmine looked at something above the camera for a moment. She shrugged uncomfortably. ‘Well, I guess you could say my father raped my mum, right?’ Her lips trembled. ‘That’s how I was conceived: my father raped my mum.’

The video ended.

Murphy heard a buzzing in his head and the edges of his vision went blurry.

My father raped my mum . . .

‘I didn’t rape her,’ he whispered. ‘I’ve never done anything – I never would do anything like that.’

But of course, the thoughts came. Did I? Did I have consent? Did she . . . did I come on too strong?

He hadn’t. He was sure he hadn’t. He was almost 100 per cent sure he hadn’t . . . they’d had sex plenty of times . . . of course, Sara had fallen pregnant very young . . .

Did she only marry me because she was scared of me?