‘Move out of Butch’s house. Cut all ties with him, including that horrible job, and move far away from Limestone Creek. Far, far away. Go to Port Douglas, like you always talk about.

‘Once you’ve done that . . . once you’ve cut Butch out of our lives . . . I might just meet you there.’

The video ended.

Murphy was barely aware of himself as he left his room. The Glock was in his hands. Where had it even come from? Had he had it with him all day? Wasn’t it beside his bed?

The anger had arrived, but it wasn’t burning.

It was cold, hard, and lonely.

Butch.

Butch had raped his wife.

Butch was Jasmine’s biological dad.

He thought of him in his singlet and shorts, his goofy grin. Cuddling Jasmine, doting on her, a good uncle.

A criminal. A rapist. How many times have I left him alone with my daughter?

Butch knew. He knew all along.

So did Sara.

Jasmine never let on. She’d never mentioned anything to Murphy. She’d never treated Butch as anything but an uncle, and Murphy had never even been jealous.

Butch is the reason Jasmine ran away. Jasmine wants Murphy to have nothing to do with him. My father raped my mum.

The white noise hit him. Burning ice. The fury like a locomotive, in his face, his teeth, his stomach – uncontrollable rage.

He thought of Bree’s body. How easily that could have been Jasmine, swinging there.

Get rid of Butch and Jasmine will come back.

He held the Glock in one hand and another bottle of beer in the other.

Where was Butch? He’d have to track him down.

What else did Jasmine ask him to do? ‘Move out of Butch’s house. Cut all ties with him, including that horrible job, and move far away from Limestone Creek.’

Yes, he’d move out of the house. That could be done right now. Already he’d punched several holes in the walls. He wasn’t aware of doing it, but there were holes there now and his knuckles were bleeding.

‘. . . including that horrible job.’

He kicked the back door open and stopped by the shed. Tucking the Glock into the back of his jeans, he picked up a headtorch, a cigarette lighter, and the can of petrol for the lawnmower. Where did the beer go? He must have drunk it.

Murphy’s feet seemed to know the path without effort, crunching through the bush and over rocks, even in the darkness. The bushland welcomed him, the damp and the deep smell of wilderness. He felt no fear, the beam of the torch lighting his way. A wallaby thumped off into the trees nearby, a possum scurried up a tree – his torchlight caught its eyes, reflected like tiny yellow lanterns in its ancient face.