Later, close to midnight, I check on Sam. He’s asleep on top of his covers, with his football boots still on and Arnold slumped across his legs. His doona cover has rockets and planets and stars on it. He’s only two years older than Yin’s brothers.

If anyone ever did something bad to him or Mum, I’d hunt them down and kill them. Adrenaline swirls in my arms and legs and gut when I think about it. I’d destroy anyone that hurt my family.

I leave Sam as he is. Mum likes to come home from the hotel and tuck him in, no matter the hour. Arnold opens one eye triumphantly as I leave; he isn’t usually allowed on our beds.

The washing machine cycle has finished, but I can’t bring myself to walk outside into the dark space behind our house and hang it out. I leave the wet clothes in a basket on top of the machine. Tomorrow morning.

One last patrol of our brick unit takes around twenty seconds and ten steps. Sam’s bedroom, my bedroom and our tiny, plant-filled bathroom huddle in one corner. The lounge is separated from the kitchen by the bench, and beyond that, the door to Mum’s bedroom.

From my bed I stare at the photos and drawings and magazine pages I’ve blu-tacked to my bedroom walls in one big chaotic collage. Normally I love to lie here and look at it. Maybe this is what the contents of my brain would look like if you tipped it out. Colours and patterns and shapes and faces. Memories and wishes and plans for the future. Like the answer to me, the sum of me, is up there on the wall.

Tonight, though, I can’t stop my eyes from sliding left, to the window. It’s fitted with a flimsy plastic handle that winds it open and closed. There’s no lock.

I think through the logistics.

Force the window open, drag me out. The window opens onto a narrow side passage. You’d have to haul me past Ron and Pearl’s unit, but they’re ancient and no threat. Then I’d have to be dragged over the low dividing wall, kicking and screaming, into the front yard. It’d be difficult. Not impossible, but maybe not easy enough.

The detective that spoke on the late news seemed to be deliberately avoiding mentioning Karolina Bauer.

When I was deciding whether or not I was going to take the scholarship to Balmoral, Karolina’s kidnapping was mere trivia. I was more interested in poring over the school prospectus, reading about subjects and results and awards, trying to understand what it all meant in real-life terms. Trying to decide if I should do my final three years at a brand new school.

None of it prepared me for the harsh and dizzying reality of Balmoral Ladies College.