The food sits uncomfortably in her stomach. No wonder she can’t get pregnant, she keeps stuffing her face with fast food and cigarettes. She presses her lips together, the violin music grating on her nerves. In fits and starts, she applies the last of her make-up. Red light, lipstick. Red light, mascara. Nothing can mask her lack of sleep.

Did she turn on the alarm system at the house? Dean is fastidious about it, but she always forgets. Did she? She just can’t remember.

The call disconnects as she hastily finds a spot in the staff car park, and low electronic beeps replace the violin, pulsing through the car. ‘Damn it.’ She brushes ash from her skirt as she winds up the window. Her phone rings again: Dawn. She glances at the cigarette butt and the greasy rubbish she shoved in the door console, feeling as full of regret as she does of food. She’ll clean the car later.

She dives into the lift, spritzing perfume all over herself. Her phone buzzes in her bag. ‘Jesus, I’m coming,’ she mutters. Notepad in hand and a mint in her mouth, she enters the stuffy editorial room right on eight, holding out her phone and smiling at her boss, who still has her own phone to her ear.

Dawn doesn’t smile back. ‘Where the fuck have you been, Oli?’ Her densely freckled face is a mottled red.

TJ is sitting at the head of the narrow table. Pia taps away on her laptop at the other end, her phone wedged between her shoulder and her cheek. ‘Right, right,’ Pia is saying, ‘yep, send it to me.’ She glances briefly at Oli, but her expression doesn’t change. ‘No, I can’t right now.’

The smile fades from Oli’s face. Dawn has the same wild-eyed look she had when they made the staff cuts in June. Oli swallows. There have been rumours of redundancies for weeks, and she knows she’s been off her game lately—all year, if she’s honest—and Dawn has always liked TJ more than her.

‘What’s going on?’ Oli hates how husky her voice sounds; at times like this, her distinctive baritone feels so inappropriate.

Dawn folds her arms and sticks out a hip. ‘There’s been a development in the Housemate Homicide case.’ She pauses. ‘They’ve found Nicole Horrowitz.’

SATURDAY, 3 OCTOBER 2005, LATE AFTERNOON

SATURDAY, 3 OCTOBER 2005, LATE AFTERNOON

Alex tries to pinpoint the moment it all went wrong. Her life sprawls out behind her, a series of twists and turns, all leading to one horrible moment. Which decision was the one that upset the balance? Which choice hurtled her so unrelentingly toward chaos? Her mind latches on to scenes from faded memories, wispy half-forgotten conversations, and others so startlingly clear they feel artificially planted in her mind. Of course, she knows there was no one thing: hers was a gradual fall from grace.