I scrawl the words that come to me—someone’s watching—on a piece of paper and set it aside.

Even though I haven’t finished colouring my photograph yet, I can tell already that something is missing. The image is too similar to the Devil Creek billboard, too much like the crime novel covers. There’s not enough comment in the artwork yet, not enough of my opinions.

The air is stifling in here; a headache crouches at the edge of my vision.

Someone’s watching—who? The world, the newspapers, Doctor Calm, the police, TV viewers, book readers. And me.

It’s possible that the thing missing from my photo is me. Or someone like me—a teenage schoolgirl watching the scene. Watching the scene of her death, her falling, the depiction of her demise. Showing that we see it, but that’s not who we are. But I don’t know how to make that happen. I don’t have the time or money to take the photo again.

My phone vibrates.

I scoop it up, and my drink bottle too, and go outside.

The garden is another world. There are bees and butterflies buzzing about and I can smell the tomato plants. The gentle sun feels good on my face. I stretch my limbs, waking up my muscles.

It’s not a bad day, after all. Maybe spring is almost here. It’s been nice to be away from the rumours and the endless cycle of news and no-news.

I read my messages—Natalia has gotten huffy to the point where she’s asking for Dad’s address, saying she’ll come over, Liana wants Katie and I to watch her netball grand final on the weekend, Mum needs help resetting our modem.

I go in the back door, through the sunroom, past the laundry and into the kitchen, all three rooms looking like they were tacked onto the house as an afterthought and might fall off one day. Dad is at work and Jarrod is banging drums in the bush with a group of men, so I have the place to myself.

I try to picture Natalia inside my dad’s house, but it’s impossible.

It would look like a slum to her, to any of the Balmoral girls, probably, instead of a major life achievement.

I fill my bottle at the kitchen sink and then drink it almost in one continuous hit.

Nestled among the bills and recipes tacked onto the fridge is the invitation to our school art exhibition opening. It’s in the first week of term, after our artworks have been up for a few days, to give students time to vote on their favourite.