Matt’s hoarse breathing dominated the sound, but Anita could hear him saying, ‘This is your fault.’

Stacey’s voice pleaded with him, then two rifle shots tore through the recording, followed by the animal sound of Stacey howling.

Matt took the phone out of his pocket again and focused the camera on Stacey, her face contorted with shock. A primitive mask of pain.

‘This is your fault, Stacey,’ he repeated.

Stacey lurched towards the dining room where the children had been lying curled together against the skirting board, trying to hide from their father. Then the footage cut out.

Yianni stared at the monitor, exhaled heavily, then murmured, ‘Far out …’

‘Yeah, right?’ said Bronwyn. ‘The guy knocks her unconscious so he can chase the children through the house. But then he waits till she comes to before he shoots them. That psycho wanted to film her reaction as he killed her kids.’

‘And—what—was he gonna watch it back later? Like a trophy?’

‘Guess so. Except he shot himself. Hang on, maybe we can see …’

As Bronwyn clicked on the file to watch the footage again, Yianni gave her a warning nudge on the shoulder. She swivelled around on her office chair and saw Anita’s face.

Anita didn’t speak a word—she would not have been capable—but the other two immediately checked themselves. Possibly they remembered she was connected to this case, or maybe they understood at some gut level.

Bronwyn paused, cautious, but then inhaled, clearly about to launch into some explanation or apology. Anita didn’t want to listen to any of the possible things that might be said in this moment. She didn’t blame Bronwyn or Yianni, but she didn’t want to engage with them right now.

She grabbed her stuff, pushed through the door towards the exit, and ran across the car park, hands splayed to hold her bag and notebook and phone and keys against her chest so she didn’t drop anything. She opened the passenger door and let everything tumble onto the seat. She needed to speed away from what she’d seen as quickly as possible.

But once in the driver’s seat, her hands trembled on the steering wheel and her field of vision was bleached out, as if she’d just stared directly at a bright light. The reality of that video was pressing in on her skull—too potent, too enormous, for the small, sealed space of the car. But she couldn’t move. And she wasn’t fit to drive.

Anita had been sitting there, stranded in the car, for fifteen minutes when the phone rang—Paula on the caller ID. She should’ve let it go through to voicemail, but she was caught off guard.

‘Paula. Hi.’

‘Oh, you are there. Where are you?’

‘Uh—in the car. Parked.’

‘What’s wrong? You sound—’

‘Nothing. I’m okay.’

‘I can hear you’re not okay,’ said Paula.