Oli sighs. She loves print, but the cookie-cutter neatness of TV does appeal sometimes, especially the hours.

She flicks through the main news sites. No one has anything new. Jan Swee, who writes for The Guardian, has managed to speak to a couple who lived near the girls on Paradise Street, but the quotes are bland and the piece is fairly weak.

Meanwhile, TJ’s front-page piece on O’Brien is red-hot. Oli reads it with admiration and envy. When TJ looks good, she looks bad, or at least less good. Their perceived success is based on comparison rather than a specific goal, and the only reassurance is that the news cycle ensures their podium finish is in constant rotation.

Oli stretches out her legs and checks Twitter. Outrage has erupted about something Donald Trump said at a campaign event. She scrolls through the comments thread for a few minutes before admitting to herself that she is stalling for time.

Back in the cafe next door, she orders a coffee from the same kid who evil-eyed her earlier and tips him fifty cents as a peace offering. She works on her feature, trying to build up some layers, but despite a few good sentences here and there, it feels hollow. She switches to drafting a podcast script and gets into a better rhythm.

Her phone rings, still on silent, the screen lighting up with a number she doesn’t recognise.

‘Olive Groves.’

‘Did you see the press conference?’ She can’t place the voice: male, angry. ‘What complete bullshit.’

‘I’m sorry, who is this?’

‘Mitch Stanley. You’re the journo who contacted me, right? God, I can’t believe this shit is still happening.’

‘Mr Stanley, yes. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you today.’

‘Yeah, well, I watched Bowman serve up his standard crap just now and figured I’d call.’

Faint electronic sounds make their way down the line, and Oli tenses. Is he calling her from the pokies? Memories of her dad calling her mum to say he’d be home late enter into her thoughts.

‘I’m glad you called,’ she says, opening her notebook, pen poised. ‘I’m not convinced that the cops disclosed all the information they have, both now and back then.’

‘They didn’t do shit back then,’ he says bluntly. ‘Just like they’re not gonna do shit now.’

‘I remember you were quite vocal about the appeal back then,’ Oli says tentatively, sounding out how far she can push him. ‘How do you feel about Alex Riboni’s suicide?’

‘Frankly I couldn’t give a shit about her. She stabbed my baby girl—I would have killed her myself if I had half the chance.’ His voice wavers unevenly. ‘Losing your kid like that, it screws you up. It completely fucked up my whole life. And her mother’s.’

‘I honestly can’t imagine.’

‘Yeah, well.’ He sniffles. ‘Can’t do much about it now.’