‘I teach some of the Indigenous Studies curriculum at the school,’ said Eliza. ‘And Georgia taught me a lot.’ Her voice broke. ‘I shouldn’t say the name of the dead.’

‘Then you’re further ahead than Coops,’ Gabriella said darkly. ‘Alright, come on through.’

They entered the dining room, where Rosie Lenah was sprawled across the table, her back heaving with grief. She had grey in her dark hair and wore a big floral dress.

At the sight of her anguish, Eliza’s own guilt nearly made her retch. ‘Rosie?’ she said. ‘I’m so . . . so sorry . . .’

Rosie turned and in one movement swept Eliza up into her arms, her words incoherent. All Eliza could do was hold her, letting her own tears fall. Rosie smelled of perfume and baking. Eliza’s mind returned to Denni, to the moment she’d heard of her death, and her own grief was amplified in Rosie.

Finally she heard Rosie speaking through the crying. ‘The mountain needed my girl,’ she sobbed. ‘We needed her . . . Why did it take her . . .?’

Over Rosie’s shoulder, Eliza saw Gabriella and Coops glance at each other. Confusion was clear on Coops’ face, but Gabriella only looked strangely excited, her eyes sparkling.

There came loud knocking from the door. Coops went to answer, and returned with two elderly women. The family resemblance was clear, and the way Rosie threw herself into their arms confirmed it. Together the three women howled their grief, and Rosie was bundled away into the tiny lounge room and onto the threadbare couch.

Gabriella grabbed Eliza by the shoulder and steered her into the corridor. ‘Can you show us her bedroom?’ she whispered. ‘We just want to have a look around, and time may be of the essence. Rosie already gave us permission. Or at least, I think she nodded when we asked. It’s not until today that they’ve even let any cops inside to look. We were working on getting a warrant . . .’

‘What do you hope to find?’ whispered Eliza.

‘We’re not sure yet,’ said Gabriella. ‘But do you know what Rosie meant, about the mountain needing G—’ She caught herself, looking around the walls of the house. ‘Needing the girl?’

‘Yes. You’ll see . . .’ It was a small bedroom already, but the large table taking up the centre dominated the space.

‘What’s this?’ said Gabriella, stepping immediately up to the table.

Upon it sat a scale model of a wide, sweeping building, with a large flagpole rising from the centre peak, waving a miniature Aboriginal flag.

‘This was her dream. The Kooparoona Niara Aboriginal Heritage Museum,’ said Eliza. The display was a mixture of architectural and trainset models. Georgia had even included tiny people, lazing in the picnic area, walking through the outdoor gallery, lining up at the coffee stand. ‘She wanted to build an Aboriginal history museum, right here in Limestone Creek. And she would’ve done it, too. She had what it took.’