The flare of anger had faded. New emotions pressed on Eliza’s skin, external and distant. Memories, thoughts, things she didn’t want to remember. Grief.

‘Up in the hills, he hides and kills . . .’ she said.

‘No. Impossible.’

The memories made her feel dizzy now. ‘Terror. I was so scared, I would’ve jumped off a cliff to escape. And I ran, I ran so fast . . . I can’t remember . . . it all feels so close to the surface . . . I think there were footsteps . . . but . . . Will you take me to Georgia’s house?’

‘Are you sure that’s a good —’

‘Monica. Please.’

‘I’ll grab our jackets.’

The Lenahs’ home was a rundown fibro house that backed onto the bushland of the mountain’s escarpment, sassafras and wattle trees encroaching over the fence. It sat at the end of a long gravel driveway lined with waratahs, and a white picket fence ran around a yard, overgrown and full of squat native laurel.

It had started to rain when Monica pulled up behind a police car parked out the front. On a short flagpole in the front yard hung an Aboriginal flag, limp in the rain.

‘Want me to come in with you?’ said Monica.

‘I’ll be fine,’ said Eliza, hugging herself. She was familiar with this house: she had come a few times before, to help Georgia with her museum project. She felt another sharp pang in her gut as she realised that would never happen again.

When she opened the car door, she could hear wailing from inside the house. A sudden grip of nausea rolled through her, and she had to hold on to the edge of the little gate at the side of the footpath. It was the sound of a woman in pain.

She heard the car door open behind her. ‘Eliza?’ called Monica. ‘Are you okay?’

Eliza nodded. The air smelled clean and full of waratah. She pushed through the gate and knocked on the door. A man answered it. He was tall, with blonde hair, a blonde moustache, a crooked nose. He looked dazed.

‘Are you family?’ he said, not unkindly.

‘No, I’m Eliza Ellis. The teacher who . . .’

‘Miss Ellis. Sorry, we haven’t met yet.’ He opened the door. ‘I’m Detective Stuart Coops. I’ve been working closely with the social worker at the school. We’re just waiting for Rosie’s family to arrive, but it’s good you’re here. Rosie might be glad to see a familiar face.’

‘I’m here to apologise to her.’

But Detective Coops had already walked off deeper into the house. ‘Pakinga? Eliza Ellis is here.’

Gabriella Pakinga appeared at the end of the corridor. She smiled at the sight of Eliza. ‘Come in. It’s good you’re here: Rosie needs someone she can hug, and she’s not too keen on police.’ She leaned in close to whisper in her ear. ‘Do you know about Sorry Business?’