At night, after the kids were asleep, the two women would stretch out on the sofa and talk about what the future might look like. Paula was sometimes tempted to say, ‘Stay living here for the next ten years,’ but she resisted. That would be selfishness. She wanted to see her friend get on her feet, grasp her independence, maybe find a new partner eventually. So the fact that Paula loved having them here—the place humming with energy again—that shouldn’t enter into Stacey’s plans.

Anyway, for the time being, it was good. For the first time since Remy’s death, Paula looked forward to coming home from work to this house.

As she swung her car into the driveway, she saw Stacey’s old red Subaru parked outside. They were back from soccer training. So right now Stacey was probably in the process of hustling the kids through the shower and into pyjamas.

There was an unfamiliar white hatchback across the street, with a sticker from a car rental company on the back window. Most likely an interstate visitor at the Lees’ house.

Both the kids’ soccer boots were on the front porch, positioned precisely. Cameron would’ve done that. That boy had a commitment to tidiness his mother and sister lacked.

Paula unlocked the front door and drew in the breath to sing out hello, but with the intake of air her mouth was suddenly filled with a teeth-jangling sensation. She knew it very well—the brassy smell of blood.

‘Stace? You okay?’

Two picture frames had been knocked off the hall table, scattering broken glass across the floor. That probably explained the blood smell—one of the kids had cut their feet.

But then in the living room, the coffee table was tipped on its side and the carved granite bird from the mantelpiece was lying in the middle of the rug.

The skin prickled up Paula’s arms, chest, neck, and she could hear her own rapid breaths, her throat stinging with the metallic blood smell. She spotted Stacey’s mobile phone on the floor, its metal carcass bashed out of shape, the screen splintered into a white cobweb. Then she saw a woman’s feet, and taking one more step around the sofa, she found her friend sprawled out.

Stacey’s long hair was sodden, soaking up some of the pool of blood around her head and shoulders. The wound in her neck was meaty, with ragged edges, as if the skin had been torn apart by an animal. Paula had seen gunshot wounds like that—years ago, when she worked in emergency departments.

She knew Stacey was dead, but still her impulse was to lunge down and kneel by her friend, check for a pulse, find some way to staunch the bleeding. It was only once she was crouched low, facing the other corner of the room, that Paula had a sightline into the dining room.