Houses in Stockton are welcoming and well-kept, even if they aren’t nearly as fancy as those in South River. There are trampolines in several front yards, natives growing on the nature strips, four-wheel drives in driveways.

What will I do when I get there?

On the train I thought about writing a letter about Pulpitt’s crimes and sending it to everyone on his street, or putting up posters around the neighbourhood so everyone could share in making his life hell. I guess I can still do those things if I want to but I need to keep moving to feel all right.

What will I do when I get to the house?

I’ll just look. I’ll see for myself what the house of a sicko looks like. Maybe it will tell me something. Maybe if I look at it I will get a sense of whether Pulpitt has anything to do with Yin’s abduction, maybe I’ll just know.

The Mewling Road sign informs me that it is named for one of the town’s earliest councillors.

I am faint.

My boots make clomping noises on the footpath and I try to bring back that fizzy Detective Burns Wingdonian assassin feeling.

I pass two apartment blocks, a small park, and the local primary school. The kids have decorated the front fence with welcome messages in different languages, and there is a convicted sex offender living within walking distance from where they play so isn’t life wonderful.

And then, quicker than you’d think possible, I’m at number 316.

A narrow house, weatherboard, pale green, more rundown than some of its neighbours. A moulting paperbark tree on the nature strip, a beaten-up silver station wagon parked out front.

I keep walking past, on the other side of the road, while I figure out what to do.

The article said his house had already been searched. It’s not like Yin is in there, right now, that’s not possible.

On my return stroll I check out the red side gate, the front window. The curtains are drawn. There’s a caravan parked in the backyard, and a thick vine taking over the carport.

My mind is cold, clear.

I imagine reaching quickly into his letterbox, to see if there’s anything there.

I imagine knocking on his door and getting a glimpse into his house.

I imagine sneaking a look into his windows, seeing what’s in his backyard. I picture climbing in a window, getting a knife from his kitchen and using it.

As I stare, a man comes out the front door and shuffles down the driveway, past the wheely bins. He’s looking at me.

‘You! I see you!’ He makes it to the letterbox and uses it to keep his balance. ‘Girl, I see you! I know why you’re here.’