The sergeant’s wife ran a small clothing boutique in town and, as a favour to Rohan, she opened up the shop late that Sunday afternoon. Rohan purchased several new items of clothing for Anita—he did pretty well with the sizes—and brought them back to the police station so she could change into fresh clothes, putting her bloodied garments into evidence bags. She wouldn’t have to wear a prison jumpsuit.

It was really only then that it hit Anita she would be staying the night in police custody. She was facing serious charges and there was no way she could appear before a judge to be bailed on a Sunday. She would have to spend a night in the station lock-up.

Rohan negotiated with the officer on duty to let him bring dinner back for Anita and allow the two of them to eat together in the lock-up. They balanced plates on their laps, with food containers on two stools like a small table set between them.

‘Thanks for dinner. This is like a weirdly austere version of a private dining room,’ Anita said, attempting to be light-hearted.

Rohan poked at his food and frowned. ‘I’m sorry you have to spend the night here. Fuck …’

Anita realised he was annoyed with himself for not being able to fix everything.

‘I’ll survive,’ she assured him. ‘Thank you for looking after me. It pays to have a friend with connections on the inside.’

They both made an effort to smile at each other.

It struck Anita with absolute clarity that making a life with this man was something she desperately wanted to do. But that left the question of whether he would have any interest in pursuing a committed relationship with an anxious and impulsive woman who kept secrets from him and had now killed a man.

Anita slept surprisingly well in the lock-up that night. Rohan had talked about booking himself into a motel in town, but in the morning Anita discovered he’d chosen to stay close during the night, in case she needed him. The young constable described seeing Detective Mehta sleeping in one of the back rooms of the station, lying on a short vinyl sofa with his feet propped on a chair.

On the afternoon of the Monday, Anita appeared before the magistrate in the courthouse an hour up the highway. She was charged with murder—as she had expected—but the police didn’t oppose bail and she was released on her own recognisance.

Everyone—the lawyer she’d called for advice, other mates in the judicial system, as well as Rohan—everyone was telling her that the DPP wouldn’t proceed with the murder charge in the end. She concentrated on keeping hold of those assurances so anxiety wouldn’t incapacitate her.