Butch handed him the lit joint and Murphy put it to his mouth. The beating on the door stopped. ‘Please . . . please . . .’ Each word felt like a gunshot. He took the joint away and handed it back to Butch, without taking a drag. He wiped the sweat from his forehead.

‘You can’t let her —’ began Butch.

‘She thinks I did it,’ said Murphy. ‘Listen to her.’

Murphy returned to the couch and turned up the volume on the TV, trying to drown out Nelly’s sobs.

He knew Doble would try to pin it on him, but it never occurred to him the rest of the town would think that too . . .

He hadn’t forgotten Theodore Barclay, the school groundsman who’d been blamed for the 1985 disappearances; first they burned down his house, then he’d been chased through the streets and bashed black and blue. After he was locked up, he’d killed himself the moment he had bail. Out here, in the wilds of Tasmania, people tended to take justice into their own hands, and they usually got away with it.

All that pain out there . . . and people think I’m the cause . . .

These people had grown up with him, or seen him grow up. They were there when he lost Sara, lost his business, his house – nearly lost his mind. How could they think he’d do this? Jasmine was all he had.

But in the back of his mind . . .

It’s because I’m a drug dealer.

Exhaustion dragged at his bones, and he lurched up the corridor and into his bedroom. Maybe it’d be better if he didn’t leave the house for a while. He didn’t want to be bashed to death just yet. Not until after he’d found Jasmine.

Blessedly, he couldn’t hear Nelly Mason’s crying from his bed. Gus the Muss jumped up beside him, curling against his back, purring. Murphy absently rubbed his hands through Gus’s fur, one question rolling through his head: But why would she think that I’ve been in Cierra’s room?

CHAPTER 11

CON

Con woke to the sound of banging on his door. He leapt out of bed, reaching for his cricket bat, his teeth bared —

He froze. He remembered where he was. He dropped the bat, kicking it back under the bed. He pulled a fresh towel from the wardrobe and wrapped it around his waist, then opened the door.

Gabriella walked in, fully dressed, carrying her computer in one hand and a takeaway coffee from the Inn’s restaurant in the other. She sat on his bed, patting for him to sit down beside her, coffee on her breath. ‘You slept in. It’s nearly 8 am.’ She paused. ‘You alright?’

It had been a fitful night, full of vivid nightmares. ‘You were just trying to catch me in the nude, admit it,’ said Con, leaving a space between them, one hand on his towel. ‘What is it?’